Closer Still
by Marlboro Blanc
Summary: Sequel to Hands On Education. It has been two years since Sherlock left Bakerford and John has resigned himself to the fact he will probably never see the curly haired youth again. But fate it seems, has other ideas.
1. Sherlock

**Well, here it is. The much (un)anticipated sequel to Hands On Education. **

**This is set two years after Hands On Education finished. I hope this new fic doesn't disappoint. :)**

**I really really hope you like this. Remember to review and let me know what you think! **

**MB**

**xxxxxxxx**

Closer. Still

Chapter 1

Sherlock

Two Years Later

_Sherlock slouched back on what remained of the sofa. If he had been in his right mind he would have curled his nose up at the dank, dusty smell the thing emitted, he would have shifted uncomfortably at the sharp, pointy edged springs digging into his back and the visible edges where the cushion had been worn away. In fact if he had been in his right mind he wouldn't even be here at all, in a strange house surrounded by low life's and losers. _

_If he had been thinking properly he would have had better judgement then to be amongst complete strangers with an expensive phone in his pocket and a coat worth more then they all had put together. If he was in his right frame of mind he would have got out of that cramped house quickly, with it's rotten carpets and dark rooms. He would know there was a high chance he could be mugged or attacked, and that any minute now the police could burst through the door. _

_But he wasn't in his right frame of mind, right now the sofa he lay on felt like a cloud or a feather bed, there was no one around him, no one who could do him any harm whatsoever, no hurt or pain. No fear or dread. As soon as the heroin was inside his vein he felt nothing but pure relief. He closed his eyes as the effect took hold, it was as if he had been immersed suddenly into a hot bath, everything felt so warm and comforting. He mumbled a few words to himself and felt his brain click out of focus. He could just about make out the two armchairs in front of him, both equally as unkempt as the sofa, and a few people he didn't know slumped on them. He couldn't remember their names, or if he had seen them before. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn't. _

_Once his brain had completely clouded over, no thought was allowed through, he didn't know who he was or where he came from, he didn't even know his name, he felt groggy but so wonderful. It was his first time on the drug, cocaine was still his oldest and dearest friend, but the curiosity and pull of the new and unknown was too much to ignore. Spending the evening passed out and vulnerable in one of Oxford's most gloomiest of crack houses seemed like a small price to pay. _

_He didn't notice anything after that, as soon as the needle slid out of his skin he was in an entirely different world. A world where nothing mattered. The past and the future, even his very self, ceased to exist, he paid attention to nothing, not the loud banging at the door, he didn't pay attention to the shouting or to the words that were being spoken in raised, angry tones._

_'Who the hell are you?'_

_'That doesn't matter, just tell me where my brother is.' _

_He barely noticed Mycroft hauling him up, he barely noticed the look of sharp disapproval in his face, the piercing stare and the 'you have disappointed me yet again' glare in his cold, joyless eyes. _

_He barely noticed being dragged out into the street and flung into the back of the car. He didn't notice that a bag of his things was in the back seat. He was as high as a kite so all he could do was shut his eyes and savour his visit into oblivion. _

_He had only just started to come down when the car stopped, which direction they had come or even how long had he been in the car for he could not tell._

_'Where the hell are we?' he demanded an answer from his older brother. His stomach constricted as if he was going to be physically sick, he knew the come down would be steep, yet now he felt incredibly unprepared. He desperately needed to go back to his flat and find something to deal with it. Some pot and a few pills would do. Now he was also sober enough to realise that he desperately needed a shower. _

_The building in front of them looked like an old country house. It was large, the only building for miles around, the surrounding grounds were neat, the grass that surrounded them a uniform length, the hedges perfectly trimmed into large rectangular shapes. The gravel beneath them had made a loud crunching sound as Mycroft's car travelled across. The sky was covered in grey clouds which matched the grey exterior of the brickwork. _

_He saw a few people pottering about the garden, and to his shock two men in white coats were waiting at the entrance. _

_'These people are here to help you' Mycroft's said flatly. _

_Realisation dawned on him. He would refuse, he couldn't stop the drugs, he needed them. He needed to forget Jo... He shook his head, 'No' he told himself. He wouldn't think of it, he had been thinking of it for the past two years, his brain not letting it go for a moment. Even after two years it still burnt him, he remembered last night, he remembered how the drugs wouldn't let those thoughts through. They wouldn't let the memories touch him. _

_'I'm not staying here, I'm going home.' Sherlock leapt out of the car and slammed the door shut. He tried to make a run for it but the men who had been standing by the door were joined by a few others creating a crowd of white. They had already walked over to greet them, each carefully position themselves around him to block any chance he had of escape. _

_'You must be Sherlock.' one of them said, holding out a hand for him to shake._

_'Fuck off.' Sherlock snapped._

_'Sherlock do not talk to them like that' Mycroft chastised, climbing out of the old jag. _

_'That's quite all right Mr Holmes.' The doctor replied calmly. 'We've had far worse.' _

_Sherlock detested the way he smiled so inanely, how he let the expletive just wash over him made his face go red. _

_He was led inside, Mycroft following behind, the men forming a circle around him and forcing him forwards. The interior was all white washed walls and blue carpets. A strong smell of disinfectant was everywhere. When he was all signed in and a thorough search had been made to make sure he hadn't smuggled anything illegal in, he was led to his room. A tiny space on the third floor with barely enough room for a bed and a desk. The far side wall was taken up entirely by the window, again the walls were white, as were the skirting boards and radiator. _

_'The doctors want to start treatment immediately, they will be up shortly to begin...'_

_Sherlock interrupted his elder brother by grabbing his elbow. _

_'Don't leave me here.' he said desperately, tightening his grip, he couldn't remember ever pleading with Mycroft before, yet he was doing it now. He was well aware of the look of abject helplessness he must have had on his face. 'I will do anything, I can get off the drugs if you really want, just don't leave me here, alone.' _

_Mycroft undid his fingers so Sherlock's hand fell to his side. Preferring to walk the length of the room and stare out the window, his hand clasped behind his back. 'They allow you one fifteen minute phone call every week, I promise I will be at the other end.'_

_And with that, Mycroft left. Sometime later a nurse came with his bag, while he unpacked he was told of the routine, what time he would be woken, what time he would sleep, when breakfast and dinner were served, when he was expected to go to counselling, and a long a detailed account on how he would get through withdrawal. When she had finished it was dark outside, he was told to get his pyjamas on, clean his teeth and go to bed. Sherlock curled up into a ball on his new bed, dreading the days to come._

_Withdrawal was hell on earth. Every minute he felt like he was going to die, in fact it got so bad that he wished for the sweet finality of death if only to end it. He seemed to vomit all the time, he felt an extreme sense of fatigue yet his sleep was rare and troubled. During the day he felt agitated and restless. He trusted no one. _

_The staff at the facility tried to get him involved in the support groups, the talking therapy and counselling. He refused, he refused to sit in a group with the other addicts and talk about his life or how he ended up here. Everyday he was dragged into the therapy room, every day he would sit in the corner scowling at everyone, he didn't say a word. Eventually they just gave up. _

_He didn't settle in well. Almost immediately he was labelled as a difficult patient. He deduced the patients and staff, he refused to co operate, he was dismissive and rude. 'why must you be like this?' one nurse yelled at him when he had made a fellow patient cry. He shrugged his shoulders and went to read a book. _

_Mycroft kept his promise, every week he was there for his phone call. Not that Sherlock ever had much to say for him. Apart from telling him how much he hated him, this facility and everyone associated with it. Though he began to find himself relying on the weekly phone call with Mycroft, his only connection to the outside world. He liked the routine, the surety of it, knowing that once a week someone would be there to listen to him, he got through the dark days by counting how many hours he had left till Mycroft would ring him again._

_After the terror of the withdrawal was over Sherlock felt something even worse. Boredom. There was nothing to occupy his mind, he wasn't allowed to smoke or do any experiments. If he wanted to go for a walk in the grounds he would have to be accompanied. Sometimes the boredom got so bad he began to wish he could go through withdrawal again, if only to have something to do._

_He was on the verge of tugging his hair out when Mycroft arranged his university work to be delivered. How Mycroft arranged that he did not know, but he was grateful for this distraction. He threw himself at it with eager abandonment. Usually he did his essays off his face on coke, and would wizz through them all in mere days, but even without the drug he was an exceptional student. Mycroft had promised that he would be out in time to do his end of years exams._

_The last week of his time there the doctors began to prepare him for life outside rehab. Sherlock was itching to leave. He wanted to be in his own place, which didn't smell of bleach and didn't have a million members of staff following him everywhere. _

_Mycroft came to fetch him, he gave him a big hug, the first time in years. As a present he presented him with a brand new microscope. A congratulations for being clean and sober. _

_He also made him promise to stay that way. _

Sherlock carefully placed the test tube back into the rack and automatically began scribbling down the results. His professor had given him the spare key to the lab earlier that day so he could work in peace. He had been back at Oxford for one day and was excited to finally be back in the lab. His home, his sanctuary, his escape. Everyday when he was in that awful place he had dreamed of one day returning here, being amongst the glass and the acid once more.

There would be a week of exams next week and then his second year at Oxford would be over. Just one year left at university. Now at twenty years old, yet he did not feel like an adult. He was not self sufficient, relying on money from Mycroft still, Mycroft provided him with everything he needed, though he had been less inclined to give him cash until he could prove he was now on the straight and narrow.

Sometimes it felt like his life was in tatters, just out of rehab and thrust back into a cold world that didn't want, need or trust him. He could count the number of friends he had on one finger, confused as to what he would do once university was over, wishing he could just be a student forever. Not wanting to find a job and get a life of his own. All the dreams he had while at school seemed so implausible now, he still yearned for detective work, but that was gone now, that was part of an old life. A life he no longer had.

It had been easier when he was an addict, when all he had to worry about was getting his work in on time and getting his next fix. Now there was nothing left to distract him, the drugs had masked the sorrow underneath, now that curtain was ripped away he had to face the cold light of day.

He caught his reflection is the glass of one of the test tubes, his face covered slightly by his curls. He had been staring at that same reflection for twenty years, it hadn't changed much in the years he had been at Oxford.

'Sherlock!' A cheery voice came from behind him, the door swinging violently on it's hinges as it was opened with far too much enthusiasm. Sherlock didn't look up from the page he had been scribbling on, or removing his gaze from the row of test tubes with the different colours fizzing away. He couldn't take his eyes away from his latest experiment. The reactions the two acids made inside the glass, the way they changed, fizzed and buzzed, it was like a kind of theatre to him.

Sam Tully grinned as he took a seat next to where he was sitting. The young man hadn't changed a jot from when he had first laid eyes on him, all those years ago when he had his interview. There was still a head full of auburn coloured locks, still incredibly tall, still incredibly handsome with a pair of wild, mischievous blue eyes.

Sam was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend in the whole world. He did wonder, when he first arrived, that maybe things would be different here, but he quickly realised this was not the case, Oxford was a glorified version on St Bartholomew's, and Sherlock was still the social outcast, still feared and distrusted. He was not welcome by his peers in St Bart's, and he was not welcome by them here. Well, all except Sam.

'It's so good to see you back.' Sam smiled again, slapping Sherlock good naturedly on the shoulder.

Sherlock tried his best to hide his grimace, he liked Sam, he really did, he was inoffensive, slightly slow witted but still vaguely tolerable, but that didn't matter, he just wasn't in the mood for talking. He wished he could just be left alone with his acid and experiments. He wished he could spend the rest of his life locked away in the lab, studying how everything worked alone and undisturbed. There was nothing for him out there any more.

'I tried ringing you but Mycroft kept saying you were too ill to talk. I know the feeling, glandular fever is just awful.'

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at that. He imagined Mycroft flustered and lying on the spot to hide where his little brother really was. Sherlock had hidden his drug habit well, no one was close enough to him to notice that he slipped out every night, no one bothered to look to closely at his arms or asked what he did on the weekend. No one cared enough to realise he was spending almost all his time shooting up in the gutter.

'I take it you are still shagging Jess?'

Sam laughed, unlike everyone else, who wished to punch him in the face when he showed his skill, Sam loved his deductions, though he saw them as a cheap form of entertainment, rather then a science of observation.

'Go on, tell me how you did it?' he squealed with all the enthusiasm of a child who wanted to know how the magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat. Sherlock scowled, his deductions were not a parlour trick.

'Chance' he shrugged.

'Ha, I knew it' Sam exclaimed, flailing his hand in the air 'I knew it was just chance and you were really just making it all up.'

'No' Sherlock shook his head 'Chance, the perfume Chanel make. Jess wears it and you reek of it.'

He saw the tip of Sam's ears go slightly red. Turning his head away he went back to the experiment, writing down the results once more.

'Listen' Sam coughed 'A few of us are going to the pub at six, going to have some fun before exams start. Fancy coming?'

Sherlock shook his head again 'No.' Sam had spent countless hours trying to convince Sherlock to go places with him.

Sam harrumphed in annoyance 'Come on Sherlock' he wailed 'You never come out with us, ever. Why are you being so anti social?'

Sherlock didn't answer, he had spent most of his life avoiding people. He really wished Sam would just give up, but he just would not let him go. For two whole years he had been inviting him over, and every time Sherlock had refused. Not that Sam had ever got the message.

There was a scraping of a chair against the floor. Sam flung his bag around his shoulder and headed for the door.

'One day you are going to look back and wonder what the hell you did with your life Sherlock, all you do is work and study, it's not a bad thing just having fun for a few hours.'

Sherlock watched him walk out the door then went back to his experiment, he heard the door shut but he did not look up as Sam left. He kept his eyes fixed on what he was doing. What was wrong with just working? What was the appeal of sitting in a loud pub with people he didn't care about. Listening to inane chatter and having to 'join in' like an idiot? He shuddered.

When he was all done he headed back to his flat. It barely took ten minutes to walk from the college to his home, deciding on the way to spend the evening studying hard with some text books. At least at his place he knew he would not be disturbed again.

The flat was exactly as he has left it, papers and various science equipment scattered everywhere. Mugs with half drunk cups of tea and newspapers were dotted about the small apartment. The curtains were still drawn, Sherlock didn't open them to let the last bit of daylight through, instead he just turned on the lamps to give the flat a warm glow. He threw his coat onto the rack and dumped his bag somewhere between the door and the kitchen.

While the kettle was boiling he opened up his laptop and quickly scanned through the large amount of emails he had received from Molly, all demanding to know where he was and why the hell he was not replying to her. He turned it off when he read them all, deciding he would answer her tomorrow.

He made himself a cup of tea and a cup-a-soup. The powder he emptied out of the sachet and poured the boiling water over was supposedly tomato. Yet the vaguely red thin broth did not look at all appealing. He took a few sips from his spoon. It tasted of hot nothing. It would do.

The soup lay uneaten by his elbow for the remainder of the night, he had forgotten all about it long before it became cold and inedible. Sherlock focused all his attention on the books that lay in front of him. He had been ransacking Oxford's many libraries ever since he had arrived and he was currently enjoying the latest spoils. There was never nay doubt in his mind that he would sail through his exams next week. He studied hard to expand his mind, to learn as much as he possibly could, to cram as much information as he could into that spongy grey matter till there was just no space left.

His arm kept itching, yearning for Sherlock to put a needle in it. He desperately fought his craving, furiously scanning the words, biting hard on his bottom lip. He needed the drugs, he needed them so badly. If he read hard enough, maybe his brain would be distracted and forget the addiction. Maybe. One phone call was all it would take. One phone call, a few minutes out in the cold and he would have his release. His body screamed at him, begged him. Just one more fix, just one more.

Digging the tips of his fingernails into the palm of his hand he recited out loud the page he had just read back to himself. When that didn't work he got up and paced the length of the small flat.

Eventually the craving began to subside and he went back to his reading.

It wasn't until there was a loud knocking on his front door that he even looked up from the pages he had been concentrating on. A quick glance at the clock on the wall at his his horror he realised it was one in the morning. He regularly stayed up till early in the morning, sometimes even dawn itself, studying or doing some kind of experiment, but when he had last looked at the time it was just gone six, he had blanked out for far longer then he thought.

There was another series of knocks, loud and furious on his door.

Sherlock quickly made a mental note off the possible people who could possibly be banging on his front door at one in the morning. Maybe it was a dealer, maybe he had a debt he had forgotten about. He hoped so, maybe he could buy some more, now the temptation was right on his doorstep how could he refuse? It could be Mycroft, he could have come back to send him to another rehab.

'Open up.' A voice shouted through the wood.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as recognition washed over him.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Pulling the door open to greet Sam's smiling face. The other boy waltzed straight in without being asked, Sherlock bristled.

Sam staggered to the sofa and collapsed on it without answering. Sherlock closed the door quickly and watched as the other boy made himself comfortable.

'Got anything to drink?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Shame, oh well.' Sam shrugged. 'Got a cigarette?'

Sherlock quickly thought about lying, though Sam knew he would never allow himself to be out of his beloved Marlboro's.

Deciding to give Sam what he wanted in the hope it would get him out of his flat quickly, Sherlock dug out the packet from his trouser pocket and handed one to the auburn haired youth. Sam only smoked when he had been drinking, though judging by his pupils and relatively steady coordination he hadn't been drinking long. Something had cut his night short.

'What happened?' Sherlock cut to the chase. Luckily Sam knew him well enough not to be offended by the lack of social niceties. He sat himself next to his only friend, leaning his foot against the top of the coffee table and positioning the old rice pudding tin he had been using as an ashtray between them.

Sam shrugged and took a long drag from his cigarette, Sherlock used the pause to light up himself. A hard night's studying made the nicotine rush all the more sweeter.

'Jess dumped me, she decided she wanted that Italian bloke instead.'. Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve, taking another drag from the cigarette he stared into the distance.

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, pretending to be sympathetic though he was not surprised. Jess was only interested in what was new and exciting, she had finished with Sam and now was moving on to someone else. It was inevitable.

'Are you okay?' he asked lamely, unsure of what was the appropriate way to behave in these types of situations. Should he comfort him? Should he call Jess a bitch and say he was better off without him? Should he say there were plenty more fish in the sea and that he would soon meet someone new who didn't have a thing for olive skin tone? He just didn't know.

Sam met his gaze and smiled.

'Yeah I'm fine.' he grinned. Not taking his eyes off Sherlock's. Stubbing out his cigarette into the tin he turned and faced him. 'I don't need her.'

Sherlock was relieved, there went his fear of conducting an impromptu counselling session.

'You know what?' Sam leaned foreword, his face mere inches from Sherlock's. He didn't know what the hell was going on, why was Sam so close? So close he could smell the soap and shampoo he had used. Maybe he was drunk after all. He furrowed his brow in confusion as Sam took his fag from his fingers and stubbed it out. Placing the tin out of reach.

'Maybe there is someone I like even more.' he whispered, running a hand through Sherlock's hair and caressing his cheek with his thumb.

Sherlock leaned further back on the sofa, trying to get away but it was too late. Within seconds Sam's lips were on his, he tried to gasp in horror but he lips stayed firmly shut as Sam's mouth lightly tugged and nibbled on his bottom lip. The coarse stubble on his jaw rubbing against him. Sherlock tried to shake him off and get up but he was pinned into place, trapped under Sam's body weight unable to move.

'You're really pretty you know' Sam commented pulling away, if he thought that was the end he was wrong. Quickly he registered the feeling of lips against his neck, caressing and licking at the skin.

He didn't want this, he just didn't. He remembered how it felt to be kissed like this, it stirred something deep from within him, something he had been trying to bury for two whole years. Grabbing Sam by the shoulder he pushed him back. Fighting and wriggling out of his arms he hauled himself of the sofa.

'What the hell are you doing?' wiping his lips furiously, trying to get the taste of Sam out of his mouth.

'I thought...I like you, I thought you liked me' he spluttered out his response. This was the second time he had been rejected that evening. Sam was still adjusting to this new knowledge that not everyone wanted to sleep with him. Seemingly undeterred he walked over to where Sherlock was standing.

'It's been you, it's been you all along. I just never had the courage to do anything till now.'

'Leave, please, just go.'

Sam sighed, looking down at the floor as if it had the answers to all life's questions. His eyes flashed with anger, Sherlock wondered for a brief moment if he was going to hit him.

'It's all right to care about people, you do know that don't you Sherlock?' he spat 'No one ever died from caring for someone.'

With that Sam turned on his heels and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

He waited a few minutes, just staring at the door, Sam's words going round and round in his head.

_No one ever died from caring for someone_

He allowed himself a few moments of silence, till he was certain he was entirely alone.

'I did.' He murmured to the now silent space.

Collapsing on his bed he rubbed the inside of his elbow in frustration. He hated Sam, he hated him for bringing back all the painful memories he had tried to forget. For god's sake couldn't he go five minutes without thinking about it.

He needed cocaine, he needed heroin, he needed _something._ He clutched as his curls violently, almost tearing them out of his scalp. Why had Sam done this to him? Couldn't he see he was off limits? Since when had he given the other boy any indication in two whole years that he wanted him? When?

The pain in his arm was almost too much to bear. Curling himself into a tight ball and wrapping his duvet around himself he desperately tried to resist the urge to get high again. He sweated and shook with need and silent sobs.

John.

Sam had brought him right back to the surface, not that he had ever really gone away. His face was tattooed into his consciousness and open or shut he was the view his eyes refused to let disappear.

'I bet you think I'm over you, don't you.' he hissed angrily. 'I bet you think I never think of you any more, but I do, I do every single day of my life.'

Two years, two years was such a very long time. John would have forgotten all about him by now. He would have had a kid by now, probably, he would spend his days grinning and fawning over the little thing. Sarah glued to his side, the pair helplessly in love, making everyone else jealous of their picture perfect relationship. Sherlock was the mistake John would vow never to repeat. Thinking of him would probably make John sick, he would come out in a cold sweat and hold Sarah even tighter. Savouring her forgiveness. If he went back to that old town John would run in the other direction. That's if he even remembered him at all. Maybe he didn't, maybe he had simply forgotten all about him like a bad dream.

He thought about sleeping, for once he wouldn't mind it, yet his mind simply would not shut off. He stayed curled up even though he was wide awake. Letting himself wallow in the memories, haunted by the past, haunted by the love he had now lost.


	2. John

**Ahoy me hearties. Here is chapter twoooooooooooooooooooo**

**Again thank you for all your lovely comments, massive hugs to all of you. **

**Also I forgot to mention last time, I mentioned in my last chapter something called a cup-a-soup, but to those of you who are not from merry old England, it is a sachet of dried powder that you pour boiling water over and it apparently makes soup (it doesn't). Clearly Sherlock is a classy student, when I was at uni I lived off 20p noodles and tesco own brand spaghetti hoops. **

**I would also just like to say that when I started this fic I really wanted to make it semi-realistic, I wanted to make each character flawed, life is messy and I wanted to reflect that. I find that in some fanfiction characters are either completely bad, or totally perfect, which I didn't want, however in trying to avoid this I feel I have made my John Watson the least sympathetic character in the history of slash. It wasn't my intention, but reading back all I can say is dam John is a cock, why is Sherlock even with him? What the hell is this writer doing? I got very mad, and I wrote it! I just really really hope I can redeem him for all of you (not in this chap though). No man who has that amount of jumpers is bad. **

**Lots of love**

**MB**

**xxxxxxxx**

Closer. Still

Chapter Two

John

He was far too old for this.

That was the first thought that struck John when he entered the club. He was far too old to be doing this kind of thing, he wasn't a carefree man his his twenties any more. He had a wife, he had commitments. He simply shouldn't be here. Fact. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of strange thinking process went on inside his brain to think that this would be a good idea. He shouldn't have come here, to this town, to this place, he should be at home with his wife this every instant.

So then why the hell wasn't he?

He was a middle aged man, he just simply didn't belong here, but he was here anyway. Because this was the only place he could think of that maybe he could get what he needed. The bouncer let him in without even asking for I.D, the young man who took his entrance few and stamped his hand gave him a funny look, as if he had never seen a man in his thirties before.

As soon as he stepped through the doors he was immediately bombarded with loud music and flashing lights, he could feel the bass of the tune that was playing through the floor and everyone was crowded around each other like sardines in a can. All alone and about ten years older then everyone else he stuck out like a sore thumb, but he didn't care, no one would recognise him here anyway. Watching the men on the dance floor kiss and writhe against each other, trying not to gawp at them as he made his way slowly to the bar.

He doubted any of them men was in the situation he was in, he doubted any of them had a pile of homework to mark, had a mortgage to pay, they just were not like him at all, he was middle aged with middle aged worries and commitments, and in a shirt his wife had ironed for him that very morning. It was as if there was an enormous void between him and everyone else.

Luckily the bar area was much quieter then the dance floor and he was able to grab a stool and order a beer. He cherished the familiar feel of the cold liquid running down his throat, picking at the label on the bottle he hoped the alcohol would soon kick in and he could remove the deer in the headlights expression he was sure to be wearing. It was his first time inside a gay club, which must have been painfully obvious to everyone judging by the strange and pitying looks he was being flashed from all angles of the club. At least he had had enough sense to take off his wedding ring before arriving, the cursed thing was currently tucked away inside the pocket of his jeans.

Ordering in another beer John settled in for the night. He was really too old to dance, but it was a prime spot to people watch. There was a part of him that knew this was just ridiculous, that really he should pack it in and head home, but that was outweighed by the part of him that secretly hoped he could pull it off, and so he sat on the stool and hoped for the best. He cowered in the corner with his beer hoping that soon he wouldn't be quite so stone cold sober, hoping that soon he could forget how seedy this was, hoping to just, well, forget.

Looking out over the club he tried to find someone who would catch his eye. Remembering his university days and rehearsing old chat up lines in his head, he tried to big himself up for the situation at hand. To pluck whatever courage he had and use it. It didn't take long for people take interest in him, though John hadn't actually anticipated people actually coming over to him. Immediately coming the conclusion that, as the older man he would have to do all the legwork to get these hot young things interested in him, he hadn't made any allowances for any other possibility.

'Hi' one man immediately pounced on him, flashing him a set of pearly white teeth. John looked him up and down, blonde, tanned, hair poker straight and far too short, his figure a bit too chubby. Not overweight, but too much like his own. He wasn't unattractive, he just wasn't...

A flinch. A horrible shudder went through him, as it always did whenever John's brain was about to conjure up his name.

'Sorry, I'm just here waiting for someone.' John said apologetically.

The man looked over him. His eyes giving him the once over. 'Shame' he shrugged and walked off, John went back to his beer.

He had to be careful, as much as he would like just to drink himself stupid he couldn't, his car was parked a few streets away as he would have to be in a fit state to drive it home.

He was contemplating just how many beers he could have when he was taken aback by the other guy who was smiling at him.

It hit him, quite suddenly. His smile, the way he held himself, young, couldn't be older then early twenties.

They could be brothers.

The stranger had black hair, though a little on the short side, impeccable cheekbones, skin the same colour as moonlight, tall, his eyes were a little too blue for his liking but one couldn't have everything.

'Hi' the stranger said, his voice low, the darkness of it made his throb with excitement. 'Can I buy you a drink?'

John nodded. 'Sure' Three beers was fine, no more then that though.

'Two beers please.' He held up two fingers to the bar man. Long and thin.

'I'm Richard.' he held out his hand, John took it in his, it was smooth yet there was rough skin on the pads of his fingertips.

'Do you play the violin?' John spluttered, at first he thought he may have blown it, but luckily Richard just laughed.

'No, guitar.' okay wrong instrument but still, a string was a string.

'What's your name?'

'Greg.' John lied.

'Well Greg, I haven't seen you around here before.'

'First time.' John answered, that was the truth at least. 'Think I'm bit too old for it though.'

'I wouldn't say that. Are you alone?'

'Yes.' John answered immediately, though Richard hadn't specified, his question had a number of possibilities but it didn't matter, he was alone, on all counts.

'Are you?'

Richard shrugged casually 'Out with a few friends, though I've lost them in there' he nodded towards the dance floor.

They continued to chat, he found out Richard was a trainee architect, was twenty four years old and enjoyed sports, classical as well as rock music and played in a band on weekends. He was fun, John thought as he drained his beer, far too much fun to be with someone like him. If he was still carefree and a twenty something he would leap at the chance to be with him. Physically fit, funny, sweet, he ticked a load of boxes. And for some reason he was in the enviable position of having his attentions.

For a very brief moment he thought maybe he should be with a Richard, but it was too late now. And that wasn't what tonight was about, tonight he was Greg, he was a policemen not a teacher, he had spent enough evenings with Greg down the pub to comfortably fabricate that career, he was charming, clever, quick witted and happy, he was game for a laugh, things he hadn't been for years now.

He drained the last of his beer.

'Do you want to go outside?'

To his surprise it was Richard who asked that question, again he thought he would be the one having to do all the work.

John didn't answer, he simply got up off the stool and threaded his hands through the warm palm of the strangers hand.

It was quick, they had barely got to the back of the club when John felt a pair of warm and very welcomed lips on his. It had been so long since he had been kissed with such ferocity and it went straight to his head. Wrapping his arms round the slender waist he pulled him close, letting his tongue fight and explore. He squinted his eyes, enough so all he could see was black curls and pale skin. It was enough, that mixed with the alcohol seemed to be enough to trick his brain. He was already rock hard.

Richard fiddled with his belt, John felt cold air hit his length and he flinched, though it was quickly replaced by warmth. Looking down all he could see was the top of his head, a black blob bobbing around as it kissed and teased him. Threading his hands through the soft hair he held it in place. It felt so good, he quickly forgot who exactly was crouched down in front of him, his mind didn't want to shatter the illusion. Instead he just enjoyed the feeling of a wet, enthusiastic mouth going to work on him.

It took a pitiful amount of time before his orgasm formed, he had always prided himself on how long he could last, making a lover come again and again before he followed suit, but, like so much else in his life, that was a distant memory.

Leaning forward slightly he panted, he was close, he was so close, he could feel it form inside him, a bud, a slight prick that soon took over his entire being.

'Sh...Sh...Sherlock.' he moaned as he ejaculated into the strangers mouth.

* * *

John climbed into the car and allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the silence. Richard's number was tucked away in his back pocket, though despite the promise he had made to the young man he knew he would never ring it. He wished he could, he wished he could let himself have a Richard in his life, take the opportunity and maybe allow himself to be happy but it was just no good. There was only one person his heart belonged to, no one else could even compete, Richard certainly didn't deserve that. How unfair it was for someone to compete with a man so far in John's past he was almost out of sight.

He stared out of the windscreen.

'I bet you have forgotten all about me, haven't you? I bet you've got some guy hanging off your arm, bet he worships the ground you walk on, bet you can't even remember my name.'

He sniffed, wiping some stray tears with the back of his hand.

'But I still love you, even after all this time I still love you, I can't let you go, I just can't.'

He remembered to put his wedding ring back on before driving home.

* * *

John was well into his second pint before Lestrade had even half finished his first. The policemen gave him a queer look, the look he had started giving him whenever John had a drink in hand.

'So you have news.' John smiled. They were having their usual pint on a Friday night, but since his friend refused to sit still and kept opening his mouth as if to say something, John guessed he had ulterior motives. 'Just spit it out'

Gred suddenly looked incredibly serious. 'Listen. John. I' he shook his head then went silent again.

'I went to London this morning.'

'Really? What were you doing there?' He remembered London, he remembered the hotel near Earls Court tube station, he remembered. His glass nearly empty, John needed a fresh pint.

'Job interview. I applied for Scotland Yard, it's a long shot I know but, well, if I do get in I will be moving away.'

John suddenly felt as if all the air in his lungs had just simply evaporated, Greg, leaving. It just couldn't happen. Sometimes it felt as if Greg was the only thing he had left. Now he was going to lose him? He couldn't, I just couldn't happen.

'What about Kate?'

'She wants to move away, she has lived here all her life, so have I, that's why I applied in the first place. This place, we've lived here for so long and we want a change of scene. Besides, they actually approached me, when Sherlock came and worked for us we had the best solved murder record in the country, seems someone took notice. '

John stood up and went to the bar. That name, god that name why had Greg even uttered it? He said nothing to Greg, only thinking that he really needed more beer.

Greg, leaving, he couldn't do that to him, could he? He had lost so much and now Greg was going to. Or did it really matter? What was one more sorrow? He could find another drinking buddy easily. Maybe.

When he returned Greg gave him another peculiar expression.

'I'm worried about you, you know.'

John chuckled. 'About me? You're worried about me, Mr Scotland Yard.'

'Yes about you' Greg snapped 'You're bloody miserable, every single day I watch you dig yourself deeper and deeper.'

John laughed, suddenly feeling the beer kick in.

'Miserable. Yeah I'm miserable. So very very miserable'

'Could you actually listen to me for once?' Greg hissed 'I'm worried that's all. Ever since he left you've just given up, on everything, it's like you've died inside, your not the John I first met, you're just a shadow of your former self. Have you ever thought of changing things? Rather then just sitting here wallowing in self pity?'

'What is there to change? I could have been happy but he left, so I've rather missed the boat on that don't you think?'

Greg sighed 'It's been two years John.'

John bit his lip to stop himself saying something he would regret. He knew what Greg was saying, two years, get over it, move on, but two years made no difference, it hurt him just as much now as it did that day, when he watched Mycroft's car disappear out of sight.

'I listened to you once.' John felt his head suddenly burst with anger 'I listened to you and because of that I lost him. God, if I had just ignored you, just told you and Mycroft where to go.'

Greg stared at the floor. 'I just want you to be happy.'

'If I was someone else, maybe,' There was nothing, no joy in life without him, John didn't even both trying to be without him.

There was an awkward pause. Each man quietly seething.

'You know I don't even have a picture.' John mumbled.

'What?'

'A picture, of him I don't have one, god I had all those months with him and I didn't even take one, not _one_. Sometimes I can barely even remember what he looked like.'

Lestrade reached over and grabbed his hand, it didn't matter, a tear fell from his eye regardless.

* * *

It was dark when he returned. He had left as soon as he could, as soon as he had the chance he was out the door, suddenly finding he could barely even look at Greg. Lestrade was going to move away, yet another person exiting his life. Would he have anyone left by the end of it? Somehow he didn't really feel like being in company after that. He found he was becoming less and less social, the only time he really socialised was the Friday nights with Greg.

He suddenly found he hated Greg, he hated him for being the one who drove Sherlock away, he hated the lecture he had given him on happiness, he was fine, honestly, why the hell was Greg so worried about him? He was hardly taking a razor to his wrists now, was he? Greg should just butt out, let him live the way he wanted.

But most of all he hated him for leaving.

It was late, he would turn in soon. The lights were all out when he had returned except for the bedroom, which emitted a warm orange glow into the dark street. Sarah was probably all tucked up in her pyjamas with a book in hand. Things hadn't been going well between them, they didn't fight or argue, it was something much much worse, they pretended. They hadn't spoken of John's affair since that night at Angelo's. Sarah was still baby crazy and acting as if everything was fine, she clutched him close to her, almost to the point of being overbearing. It was stifling, yet everyday he pretended he was the perfect husband. He was cold and distant towards her, keeping her at arms length, yet he always did the shopping at the ironing, he was never cruel or harsh. He was perfectly kind, a gentlemen even, yet he never acted as if Sarah was the one who had his heart. He barely kissed her passionately, he gave her light pecks everyday but rarely did he do more then that, even when he did his mind was elsewhere, she must have known this because she rarely instigated it.

Rummaging through the cupboard he found the bottle of whiskey, wait that wasn't right. He had only bought this last week and yet it was nearly empty already. He shrugged, there was just enough for a large glass, he would pick up a new bottle the next day.

The whiskey burned his throat, he relished it, he was constantly chasing the buzz he got from alcohol, though he knew it wouldn't last, that he would wake up the next morning feeling even worse, but it was worth it, it was worth the few seconds of feeling okay.

He stumbled up the stairs as quietly as he could. Trying to make as little noise as possible.

'Is that you John?'

'Yeah' he called back.

He walked into the room, leaning across the bed he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing his pyjamas and heading to the bathroom.

'Hows Greg?' Sarah asked on his return.

'Fine.' John replied, running his tongue over his teeth, screwing his mouth up from the funny taste the toothpaste had caused as soon as it reacted with the alcohol. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers over his chest and tried to get comfortable.

Sarah put down her book and placed it on the bedside table.

'I did a test today.'

'A test? What type of test?'

Sarah turned to him and smiled, wrapping her arms around him and bringing him closer to her chest. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.

'I'm ovulating'

'Oh.'

John felt himself unable to breath, suddenly he felt very hot and clammy. A test? Oh god, oh god.

They had had unprotected sex a few times, usually it only lasted a few minutes, there was no foreplay involved. It was cold and calculated, not like Sherlock, he spent hours just kissing and holding him, exploring him for days until the younger man would lose his patience and command him to 'just bloody get on with it John', he could hear his voice in his mind, he could almost remember the taste and feel of him, it made him want to cry.

Luckily nothing had come of the few times they had been together, not that they ever had sex enough to even have the chance of conceiving. Maybe his luck was in and he was infertile. Maybe Sarah was barren. Maybe. Hopefully. But if she was ovulating the stakes were raised significantly. Maybe this time would be the time.

He didn't even know if he wanted kids, he was good with other people's kids, his mother had once remarked he would make an excellent father, whenever he was around the tiny things they seemed to cling to him like magnets, but did he really want his own? Would he be with them exactly like he was with Sarah now? Always in the room but never really there. He pictured Sarah pregnant with his child, her belly stuck out from carrying his kid, he felt strangely nauseous, he pictured a little John Watson, utterly dependant on him. Did he really want kids with Sarah? Did he really want to bring an innocent child into the mess that was his life?

He pictured another toddler, sucking his thumb and holding a stuffed bear in it's hand. This time it had his blue eyes, but his hair was black as night as his cheekbones could cut steel. His heart throbbed.

He would have Sherlock's children.

Not that Sherlock would ever want kids, but if he did, he wouldn't even question it, he would let Sherlock take him to the ends of the earth, male pregnancy was of course impossible but if Sherlock wanted John to carry his child for nine months he would do it, he would do it in a heartbeat.

He was broken out of his daydream by Sarah sliding of her pyjamas bottoms, lightly tugging at his elbow she positioned him in front of her. John slid his own pyjamas down his thighs, just enough to reveal himself. He looked down at himself, completely flaccid, barely a hint of life. He palmed himself, still nothing.

'Just give me a minute'

He tried doing it harder, putting more and more pressure on it but it remained completely limp in his hands.

He tried touching Sarah, he slipped his hands under her shirt, hoping the feel of soft, warm flesh would excite him.

'Oh just get your hands off me.' Sarah hissed batting his fingers away. She pulled her pyjamas back on and glared at him.

'You're not even trying!' she yelled 'You're not even trying to fix this.'

'Sorry.' John mumbled 'It's just, I had a lot to drink.'

'Is that your excuse is it? A lot to drink.' She scoffed, flinging open their wardrobe and digging out one of the spare pillows and an old blanket. 'Is that why you always look like a man sentenced to death every time I try to get you to touch me?'

'Sarah!' John protested, but a few seconds later he felt the pillow hit his face.

'You can sleep on the sofa tonight, I can't bare the sight of you.'

John had always tried to ignore the fact that, even as a grown man he never felt cramped while lying on a sofa. He didn't need his ego deflated any more. Lying down on it he tried to make himself comfortable, tossing and turning as he tried to find a position he could sleep in. Things got even worse when the dog decided to join him.

'You still love me don't you pops.' he said stroking her ears. She licked his ear, easily the most affectionate gesture he had received in a long time.

A few hours later he was shook out of his restless sleep by Sarah. Her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her and heavy bags under her eyes, he couldn't tell in the dark but he suspected the whites of her eyeball were bloodshot, she looked like she had been crying.

'I'm sorry I said those things to you, I didn't mean it.'

'It's okay' he soothed, kissing her lightly on the forehead. John knew it was a lie, he knew there was so much truth in her outburst, but he didn't press it, he just wanted to get this argument out the way and get on with things. He wanted peace and quiet, he didn't want Sarah reminding him of how much he had fucked up.

'Come back to bed.'

Again John didn't argue, what would be the point? Sarah had so much moral high ground he could be in space, and compared to her he was a rat scampering along in the gutter. He followed Sarah up the stairs, returning to their bedroom. He slipped back under the covers feeling Sarah's weight pressing into the side of him. She settled her head on his chest, John didn't move, no matter how much he wanted to, he ran his fingers through her hair as she drifted off. He stared at the ceiling, praying for sleep to find him once more.


	3. Taken At The Flood

Really short chapter I know, but this is more of a bridging chapter before all the action starts. :)

**Closer. Still**

**Chapter 3**

**Taken At The Flood **

He stumbled through the long, dewy grass, it was wet and slippery beneath his feet, making him feel like he was on an ice rink, sliding about everywhere. Though his lack of sure footedness was probably more the booze's fault then anything else.

This was a bad idea he thought, it was dark, the night blacker then ink in the sky. The only light came from the odd house in the distance, and the moon and stars shining down above him. He really should have taken Mike up on his offer of staying on his sofa for the night, not insisting he could find his way home in the dark.

He should turn back, it wasn't that far back to Mike's, but he didn't want to wake him and piss him off, the man would be asleep by now, so he trudged foreword, lacking any judgement he may have had when sober, towards the vague direction of home. Maybe he should walk back, he could try and find the main road rather then acting like an idiot and trying to find a non existent short cut through the muddy fields.

He had been here before, a vague memory he once had flickered weakly in his brain, he could just about recall the boys playing with each other in the grass. The whole place had a strange sense of deja vu despite like darkness and only the tiniest clue of knowing where he was.

He marched on, hoping that somewhere he would see something familiar, trudging his way till he found himself at a crossing, the barrier was down but he was impatient, eager just to get home, far too drunk to really be able to pay attention to anything else. He leapt over the barrier and immediately lost his footing, stumbling forwards and collapsing onto the ground in a heap. Turning to his side he began retching, vomiting all over the floor, his brain spinning. He tried to get up, but his body just would not co operate.

There was a large light coming towards him, it got bigger and bigger and bigger, a loud whooshing noise filled the air deafening him. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, again he tried to move, again there was nothing.

Closer and closer it came, till it was right in front of him and then, darkness.

* * *

John held the bridge of his nose between his fingers, his eyes shut as he tried to block out the painful light that insisted on coming in through the window. He leaned back in his chair, trying to keep himself upright and resist all temptation to slump forward. His head was spinning uncontrollably. The hangover was the worst he had had in years, he could hear his heart pounding in his head as if someone had crawled inside his skull and was beating a drum like there was no tomorrow. Any minute now he would be sick, he just knew it.

Slowly he opened his eyes, immediately regretting it as the rush of light made his head pound.

Rows of young faces stared back at him, it was the last day of term at St Bartholomew's, they were breaking up for the summer and John had nothing planned, using the time instead to get violently drunk the night before.

'Yes Holly?' He mumbled to the girl in front with her arm stuck up into the air.

'It's Melissa actually Mr. Watson.'

'Sorry, Melissa, what is it?'

'Err, what do you want us to do?'

John shrugged, he was too hung over for this, in fact he didn't have a bloody clue. It was the first lesson of the day and all he wanted was to find a quiet corner where he could keel over and die.

'Just talk amongst yourselves for a bit.' he croaked.

The students stared at each other awkwardly, then began to chat.

'Not so loud' he wailed grabbing his head with his palms. Their word reverberating round his head causing agony.

For the next lesson he dug out an old DVD for the next class to watch, savouring the darkness, there was silence except for the low murmurings of the narrator, peace, the pain in his head began to slowly subside. For every lesson up until the bell rang it was the same DVD, John didn't care, he didn't care that none of his pupils gave a shit about volcanoes, he didn't care that he could recite the whole thing having watched it six times in one day, he just wanted to go home and sleep.

'John, I need to see you in my office.' the headmistress poked her head round the door as he was packing up to leave. John swallowed.

She lead him inside her neat office, it was huge, John could probably teach a class in it, a enormous desk and chair sat and the edge, around the walls were rows of folders and books, John sat in one of the armchairs opposite his boss.

'John, are you aware that this is the third time I've caught you hungover this month?'

John sighed, he thought he could get away with it, dammit it was the last day of term who cared? It's not like anyone was doing any teaching. What did it matter if he had bloodshot eyes and a pounding headache?

'Do you remember last time?' she continued 'I said that was your final warning, and you promised never to do it again?'

John nodded, he vaguely remembered something like that happening.

'John I'm sorry, you're a fantastic teacher but I'm afraid it's out of my hands now. You have left me with no choice.'

John's ears pricked up.

'Are you firing me?'

The head stared down art her desk.

'I'm sorry John. There is nothing I can do.'

John got up off the chair, he was in shock, had he really just lost his job? Was this really happening?

'I will get my stuff.' he mumbled. Three years, three whole years he had been here and it was over, just like that, he knew there was no point in fighting, he knew he could beg and beg but there was no chance of keeping his job, besides, in his current predicament he doubted he could do anything. He would have fired him to, if the positions had been reversed.

'John wait.' His now ex boss leapt up out of her seat and stood in front of him. 'I really like you John, your a wonderful man but...' she paused, then lightly placed her hand on his shoulder. 'have you considered getting professional help?'

'Professional help?'

'John have you thought there is a chance you could be an alcoholic?'

John gawped at her, an alcoholic? Him? No chance. Harry was an alcoholic, not him! He wasn't addicted, yes he had been drinking heavily but he could give up any time he wanted to, he just didn't want to, he didn't want to be alone with himself when sober, when all he could do was remember what he had lost.

'Spare me the therapy session.' John replied before walking out the door.

* * *

Mickey was not a smart man and he knew it.

He had brawn, not brain, even his father used to joke that if dynamite were brains he would have enough to blow himself up, and at school they called him 'Thickey Mickey'. Yet despite this he had found a steady job working on maintaining the railway tracks that ran through Bakerford. He had done it since leaving school five years ago, and would probably carry on doing it till he was ready to retire, just like his partner Frank. The illuminated jacket and yellow hard helmet fit snugly, as if they had been designed especially for him.

He was a large man, towering over almost everyone, 6ft 4 and the physique of a bodyguard, a proper gentle giant. He knew he was dumb, but at least he was smart enough to admit it, rather then pretending to be something he wasn't, besides, it had never stopped him, and everyone at the office seemed to like him. Frank said they did, and Mrs Ellis had made him a home made cake for his birthday last week, Mickey had been chuffed to bits blowing out them candles while the whole office sang, he even had a tear in his eye when they gave him the card.

Frank rubbed his hand on his beer gut, then ran it through his thick moustache, he would be leaving soon, Mickey was sad, he liked Frank, he had told Mickey he wanted to spend his retirement looking after his plants, they had had a collection for him at the office a few days back, Mickey would miss Frank.

'What do you think?' he nodded to the lump on the tracks.

Frank shrugged 'Suicide probably, poor bugger, we'll have to get the coroner in, they can pick up what remains of him, whoever he was. Hit last night I reckon, probably didn't even feel it poor bastard, better get used to this Mikey. I've seen a few of them in my time and it ain't pretty. '

Mickey nodded, Frank was right, it wasn't pretty, luckily Bakerford was a small place, only a few trains delayed due to obstruction on the tracks, though everyone knew what obstruction really meant. He glanced at his watch, it was a Sunday and his mum was making a roast for that afternoon and he hoped he would be back in time.

He held up a brown wallet he had seen on the floor. 'Do you think this could be his?'

Again Frank shrugged, Mickey always admired his laid back approach, he was always chomping at the bit yet Frank had a knack for remaining entirely calm at all times.

'Could be. Got any ID in it?'

Mickey felt a swell of pride at his find, Frank had completely missed the soft brown leather hidden in the undergrowth but he had spotted it.

He leafed through it, no cash, no drivers licence, just a big of change, some shopping recites and an old credit card.

'Errr S. Holmes it says on here.' Frank snapped his head round as soon as he said the name. 'Did you know him?'

'No' Frank shook his head, 'But my wife knew his wife, she died years ago, he hit the bottle pretty bad after that. If the train hadn't had got him the drink certainly would have. Two sons I think it was, funny names, what were they? Milton, or was it Mycroft? And what was the other one? God was it Sherman? No that's not right. Whatever they were called apparently he didn't treat em right, especially the youngest, said he was a bit too liberal with the old belt, or at least that's what I heard.'

Mickey nodded. He vaguely recalled the name Holmes, maybe he had gone to school with one of them.

'We better get in touch with them if their next of kin, any idea where they are now?' Again Mickey felt a stab of pride at himself, he had remained calm and collected, just like Frank, and he was the first to mention next of kin. He was taking charge of the situation, he couldn't wait to tell his mum and dad all about this.

'Ain't got a clue where they are now Mic, last I heard they had both packed off to Oxford, don't blame em, if the rumours were true no wonder they wanted to get as far away from this place as they could.'

Frank had put his hand on his hips, Mickey had started to call this his serious pose. He copied him, trying to look professional, glancing around the crossing, the tape where the area had been sealed off flapping in the wind.

'Well then' Mickey said, trying to sound as authoritative as he could, and older then his brief 21 years. 'It looks like they will be coming back.'


	4. Back To The Old House

Closer Still

Chapter Four

Back to The Old House 

'Sarah, I've lost my job.'

he coughed and tried again 'Sarah. Listen I have lost my job'

No that wasn't right, the tone was a bit off. He tried again 'Sarah I'm really sorry but I've lost my job'

No that was even worse! He sounded so pathetic and meek.

'Sarah, the head was a fucking bitch and for no apparent reason has fired my sorry arse.'

Probably should not say that, but John smiled all the same.

He clutched the brown box holding his possessions and stared at his house. He knew he should just walk in, explain to Sarah what happened and get it all over with. But he just couldn't quite manage it. There was something just utterly terrifying about revealing to his wife the truth, that she was now the breadwinner of the household and he would be taking a summer job stacking shelves in Tesco, or something like that. St Barts was the only secondary school for miles. So he was certainly in a jam.

Not that it really mattered, he could teach at the best school in the country but he would no longer enjoy it, there was just no point in anything any more. Losing Sherlock had now cost his job, along with just about everything else he had. Really, what was the fucking point? Now he was fairly certain he no longer cared what happened to him, he felt brave enough to walk inside. Opening the door he found Sarah at the dining room table. The Bakerford Gazette opened out in front of her.

'Afternoon.' he murmured. He kissed the top of her head and reached for the wine shelf, there had to be something, there wasn't, he quietly cursed at Sarah then rummaged through the cupboard. No spirits either. He was getting rather desperate when he opened the fridge and to his utter relief, he found a solitary can of beer.

He suddenly lost his voice, found he couldn't quite say the words to Sarah, one can was not enough to get him drunk enough to tell all. He decided he would wait. Maybe he would invite Greg round to the pub and he could get utterly smashed, crawl home and tell Sarah about his new found unemployment. He got out his phone and sent Greg a quick text. Now his phone was open and he was in a particularly masochistic mood he went through his inbox and read through the collection of texts from Sherlock he hadn't quite had the heart to delete yet. About a year ago he had finally plucked up the courage to ring the number, but he had got through to an old lady in Swansea. It had nearly killed him, what got him through the early days was thinking that one day he would be brave enough to ring him, and now he new the number was wrong, that thin film of home had evaporated.

Thankfully Greg texted back quickly, telling him to meet him at the Brown Bear at eight, John breathed a sigh of relief, that was his evening sorted then.

'Anything interesting in there?' he asked Sarah. Being Ex-Londoners they often had a good laugh over the quality of the local rag. Regional publishing was certainly a bit of a joke when you come from such a busy and exciting place as the capital. Usually it was full to the brim of stories of missing cats, news of the local fête, how Farmer Tom's cows had once again escaped and other trivial matters. John still remembers fondly the hysterics he and Sarah found themselves in upon reading a double page spread on Joe Thompson's missing bucket.

'Oh haven't you heard?' Sarah raised an eyebrow at him as if he was the village idiot. And since John, with the exception of Greg, kept pretty much himself to himself, and didn't engage himself on the lives of his neighbours, he guessed he was.

'Do you remember that boy you used to teach? Sherlock Holmes?'

John felt his whole body jolt as Sarah spoke his name, so much so he almost dropped the glass of beer he was now holding. He paused, letting all the pain and hurt run through him before he pulled himself together.

'Yeah. What about him?' He said as nonchalantly as he could. Trying to make out he didn't care. Sherlock, in the news? Whatever for? What had he done? Was he back? Sarah didn't know, he repeated to himself, she didn't know. She still thinks you were shagging a woman.

'His father was found dead yesterday morning, apparently a train knocked him over.'

John didn't entirely know what to say to that. He just replied 'Really?' and let Sarah tell him all the gory details.

He felt nothing but a strange kind of happiness. He was dead, he couldn't hurt Sherlock any more. Did Sherlock know? Was he sitting in his rooms at Oxford right now, was he being comforted by his new partner, Mr advanced physics who was so clever and who John always imagined looking like a runway model. John was progressed their relationship much further last night, now they were married and honeymooning in the south of France. They had butlers and waiters running after them, answering their every whim as they ate and laughed and fucked. He imagined Sherlock had told him about their relationship, about how much he had loved him but in return he was bitter and cruel. And Mr advanced physics would hold him in his picture perfect arms and tell him he would never hurt him, and Sherlock would smile and be content, thinking why the hell was a with that stupid oaf Watson in the first place, he used to smile at John.

Maybe he was he throwing a massive party right now? Probably, John wouldn't blame him, who would? His father had made his life an absolute misery. But now he was dead, now he could no longer hurt him. John was happy at that, he was positively giddy, knowing this was probably the best news Sherlock would ever receive, knowing that that part of his life was truly over, and now he could really go on with his life. He probably would thank the train when he received the Nobel prize for being an absolute bloody smart arse.

It was all over. Now Sherlock had his life to look forward to, knowing that the skeleton in his closet would soon be six foot underground.

* * *

Mycroft turned off the engine, the car immediately becoming entirely silent. He allowed himself a few moments to calm down, he had been frantically driving from London to Oxford and he needed to regather his thoughts, to slip back into his cool façade. Sherlock was not going to listen to him if he turned up at his doorstep in hysterics.

He had received the phone call hours earlier, telling him his father was dead. He felt nothing, he didn't feel sad, he didn't even feel happy, or relieved. He just felt nothing. After all these years of running away, after successfully cutting him out, living in London and pretending both parents were dead, he know didn't notice the absence. He had tied a cord round that limb so tightly, he didn;t notice that it had finally dropped off.

He had to tell Sherlock, the railway staff were most helpful and he insisted on telling Sherlock himself. He couldn't tell him this type of thing over the phone, so he decided to do it in person.

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock asked him as soon as he opened the door. Mycroft sighed, he knew better then to expect a warm welcome but every time he came round Sherlock would treat it like a personal violation.

'Really Sherlock the Spanish inquisition is so churlish.'

He looked round his old flat. It used to be so neat and tidy when he had lived here. Now there was papers and books scattered everywhere. He winched at the cows heart lying on the table, looking like it was half way through an intricate dissection.

Thankfully Sherlock did have some manners and put the kettle on, luckily there were teabags and enough milk and sugar to cover the both of them.

Sherlock cleared away the heart, his microscope and enough space so he could sit down at the table.

'So, what are you doing here?' Sherlock asked again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes 'And how are you Mycroft? So nice to see you Mycroft? How is London...'

'Oh just get to the point.' Sherlock snapped. 'You know how much I despise small talk.'

Mycroft sighed again, he had no idea what to say, as if all the words he had planned had grown little wings and simply flown away.

'it's about father.'

'What about him?' Sherlock sniffed, acting uninterested but there was no mistaking the anger that had briefly flashed in Sherlock's grey eyes.

'He is dead.'

There was a long pause. Mycroft watched as Sherlock stared down at the floor, swallowing harshly. As Mycrofts words settles he looked so utterly relieved Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was about to laugh.

'What happened?'

'A train, he walked over the tracks and it hit him, no one knows if it was suicide or an accident.'

'I guess the latter, there is no way he would be kind enough to do this himself.'

Mycroft was about to chastise him, but then he remembered what his father had told him all those years ago, how he made him bleed. Mycroft did not say it out loud, but he was secretly glad. He loved his younger brother, and know that awful weight had been lifted from him. He let the comment slide.

'I need you to do something for me. As you know the Korean elections are coming up and I cannot leave my office. You however, have a whole summer of doing nothing ahead.'

Sherlock leapt up off his chair and marched over to the windowsill, drawing out a packet of cigarrettes from his pocket he lit one and then proceeded to glare at him.

'I'm not going back.'

'oh stop being so childish' Mycroft hissed 'All I need you to do is speak with the solicitor, go over his will and get the house in order, it shall not take long.'

Sherlock shook his head 'I am not going back.'

'You must, I'm sorry but you have no choice.' he opened his suit up and pulled the bit of card out of the pocket in the silk lining 'I already have your train tickets here, a train leaves Oxford Station at nine o clock tomorrow.' he reached back in and this time pulled out a slip of paper 'And here are your hotel reservations, at first I though of asking Mrs Hudson but this way it will not be personal. It's very simple, all you need to do is meet with the solicitor, he will do all the hard work.'

Sherlock exhaled some smoke out of the open window, 'I'm not going to the funeral.'

'I'm not asking you to. I have already spoken with Mike, one of father's friends, he is arranging everything, I'm just footing the bill.' Mycroft was not going to the funeral either, he couldn't face it, sitting there with the drunken mourners pretending his father was a good man,it would be too much, listening to everyone rattle on about his life. No, he would leave it for others to attend, others could sit in the pews morning the loss of that monster, crying into their handkerchiefs, he would not, he would spend the day working, pretending that across the country they were not lowering his father into the ground. He did not see the point in forcing Sherlock either, especially as it was he who had withheld the brunt of his fathers anger, and his little brother had so little control over his emotions. If Sherlock would not attend he would not press the matter, Sherlock was old enough to decide that by himself.

'There is a return ticket in there to, it's open, stay as long as you like.'

'And what if I see him?'

Mycroft flinched at this question, hoping they could ignore the large, John Watson shaped elephant in the room, the true reason why Sherlock did not want to return home.

'That is a very remote possibility.' Mycroft responded, Bakerford was not a large place, but surely it was large enough so two people could not just so happen to run into each other.

'There is still a chance though.'

Mycroft paused, this conversation getting far too close to the gooey, unsightly mess called feelings, for his liking. 'He chose his wife, remember that Sherlock, if you see him, turn around and walk in the opposite direction.'

Sherlock sniffed 'A week Mycroft, I will give you a week of my time but that is all.'

'very well.'

A week, well, it was more then Mycroft could ever have hoped for.

John stared into his pint, not quite wanting to look up and meet Greg's eyes. The Brown Bear was unusually quiet and John felt horribly exposed, as if all the bar staff and everyone else was watching them.

* * *

'You can come and visit.'

John laughed 'it wont be the same.'

Even though the possibility was there, John had never believed Greg would actually do it. He was too old, it seemed so remote, so impossible, yet it had happened. As soon as they had grabbed a table Greg had blurted it all out. How he had successfully applied for Scotland yard, how he had passed through each test they had set him like a knife through hot butter, how they had pretty much begged for him to join them. And he wasn't going to be some entry level tea boy, he would have his own office, his own division, heck in a few years he could be running the whole thing.

'Homicide, just like I always dreamed of.'

John felt bad, he should be happy for Greg, it wasn't everyday someone got that kind of promotion. He should be slapping him on the back for a job well done.

'Congrats.' he raised his glass deciding to just forget about himself for a few minutes and be a decent friend. 'You'll be great I just know it.'

Greg smiled 'Thanks. We will keep in touch, you are always welcome to come stay.'

John like the idea, Greg was a solid friend and losing him would be a mistake. He would try his best to keep in touch.

'Yeah, I will.'

The move was scheduled for next week, in two weeks time Greg would start his new job. Everything changing, never for once staying the same. Except for John, everyone's lives had grown and evolved, except his, he was stuck in the hole and he just didn't have the energy or the strength to get out of it. He wished he could be like Greg, go after the opportunities that arose and try and make something of his life. Or maybe it was too late, maybe he was too old and too tired to really make a change.

No. it wasn't. He wasn't. John drained his pint and quietly decided that the next thing to fall into his lap he would grab with both hands and not let go, he would chase it right to the edge of the earth if he had to. As unlikely as it was that something would come up, it wasn't impossible. Something was going to change, John would make sure of it.

In that pub, saying goodbye to his friend. John Watson decided to become a new man, he decided that whatever came his way next, he would not let pass him by.

* * *

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the train seat, he hated train seats, there was never enough room for his long legs, it was never comfortable enough to fall asleep or to read. Instead he made do with watching the countryside flutter past his window. The carriage was virtually empty, people always left Bakerford, they rarely returned. He had the route memorised in his head, despite not having come this way for years. In fact the last time was with John when they had returned from London. He did not dwell long on the memory.

A week, it may not sound like a long time but it was when you were in a place you did not wish to be. He would stick to his promise and give Mycroft a week, he would talk to their solicitor, read the will, put the house on the market and go. That was all, he would not stop to think, he would not allow himself to become drenched in nostalgia. It would be in and out in no time at all. And he most certainly not allow himself to become distracted by thinking of John Watson.

He had memorised every field, every bunches of houses, soon he was pulling into the familiar station. Grabbing his suitcase he disembarked and soon he found himself in the main street. Heading towards his hotel, he was so glad Mycroft had had the decency to book him into a hotel, at least this way he could pretend he didn't belong here. That he was a total stranger, here on business, nothing personal.

He walked past the shops, past the cinema and Angelo's restaurant. Everything, it was strange. None of it felt like it belonged to him. It was all so familiar yet entirely alien to him. The streets, the shops , they were no longer his any more. They belonged to a different world.

He decided to get checked into the hotel as quickly as he could, then he would go and see Mrs Hudson for lunch, after that he had an appointment with the solicitor and the estate agents, he had a long day ahead of him. He had such a long day ahead of him so the quicker he could dump his stuff and get started the better.

George's hotel was the only hotel in Bakerford, it was old and stuffy, ornately decorated like something out of a Christie novel. His room was a double room on the second floor, large, with its own en-suite, it was nice, but he would not be here long. He did not unpack the clothes in his suitcase, only taking his toiletries and placing them by the sink.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson squealed as she opened the door. 'Oh it's so good to see you!' She pulled into an enormous hug and then lead him inside. Something smelt good he thought as he went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, Mrs Hudson proceeded to feed him the most enormous lunch.

The chatted constantly, Mrs Hudson filling him in on all the neighbourhood gossip. Apparently his fathers death had caused quite a stir, as that is all anyone could speak of for days. Mrs Hudson did not try and console him on his loss, knowing that he would not want that, and for that Sherlock was thankful.

Sherlock gave him an edited version of his time at Oxford, the version where he was a good student, didn't take drugs and always went to lectures. She seemed to be glad, and happy for him. Sherlock didn't want to know what she would say if she knew the truth, but he was off drugs now and maybe he could pull it all together.

He stayed at Mrs Hudsons for as long as he could, he liked her company, he was enjoying being back with her so to his surprise he was upset to leave her, they arranged to meet up soon and he even gave her a quick hug as he said goodbye.

Walking down the street he once again felt like a stranger in his home town, not like he had ever felt like he had belonged here. The sooner he could get all this over with and return to Oxford the better. These streets were not his streets, not any more. He just had nothing to keep him here, apart from Mrs Hudson that is. All he wanted to do was get everything out of the way so he could go home.

He turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks, he saw someone coming towards him, he would recognise the figure at any time, no matter how much time had passed, he knew the way it moved, the sandy hair and blue eyes. Suddenly the figure looked up and their eyes met.

And just like that, he was seventeen years old again.


	5. Never Let Me Go

**I am really running out of ideas for authors notes. There is only so many times I can say thank you for reading/favouriting/following/reviewing. I need a better imagination I lover you all like...oh I give up. enjoy.**

**MB**

**xxxxx**

Closer Still

Chapter Five

Never Let Me Go

_If you see him, turn around and walk in the opposite direction_

'Sherlock! Sherlock!'

He ran, he turned himself to face the other way and walked quickly in the other direction. Quick enough to be unsure of the exact cause of his beating heart and shortened breath. It was a curious sensation, a horrible feeling at the pit of his stomach, at having his past come back into his sight. Came back to haunt him, came crashing back into his present.

He felt a hand on his elbow, he didn't need to look back to know who had grabbed hold of him so tightly, his past his world, pain, dreams, anger, heartbreak, love, joy. John. He wanted the earth to swallow him up right there and then. So he didn't have to deal with this. He had always wondered, dreamt, secretly hoped he would see John again, but now it was here all he wanted to do was run, board a train and run straight back to Oxford. The hand turned him around to face the rest of his body. Eyes once again meeting his, he stayed still, his feet rooted to floor as if glued to the concrete. Again he wanted to run, again he couldn't. He didn't know what to say. Just a simply hi, how are you? Seemed so unbelievably impossible, after all they had gone through, how could they simply just stand there chatting in the street like two old friends who had just so happened to bump into each other? Maybe John would simply say a few words, then let Sherlock go. Maybe he would simply say hi as if that was enough, then return Sherlock to the void he had come from.

What immediately struck him was the broad grin that was currently plastered over John Watson's face, though he did not look like his John any more. Physically he looked exactly the same, same sandy blonde hair, same height, same weight, but something was off. The clothes he wore were creased and wrinkled, as if someone had just grabbed them off the floor and put them on, he had stubble on his face, his memories of John were entirely clean shaven, now he looked as if he had just given up, there were large bags under his eyes, his eyes themselves dull and lifeless, the eyes of a troubled insomniac, where once they had been so full of life. His thoughts and fantasies that he had used to torture himself with over the past few years, John laughing and joking, John being so happy without him, seemed so at odds with the figure currently stood in front of him.

'You look great.' John remarked, Sherlock shrugged, he did not feel great. He felt as if he was about to throw up. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. John laughed.

'It's all right, I know I look like shit.'

Again Sherlock wanted to say something, again he couldn't. It was as if he had forgotten every word he had learnt, once again feeling like he was sixteen and having a paper aeroplane thrown at his head.

'I heard about your father.' John continued. 'I'm glad.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrow 'Glad?'

John nodded 'No point in pretending, I'm happy he can't hurt you any more.'

Sherlock glanced at his watch, he had to be at the solicitors, if he didn't hurry he would be late.

'I have to go, I haver a busy day ahead. It was nice seeing you' he spluttered, trying to get away yet a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

'Coffee?' John pleaded.

'I'm busy.'

'Afterwards, please just,' John paused, for a moment Sherlock wondered if he was about to burst into tears, why he did not know 'Ten minutes' he continued 'Just give me ten minutes, after that I promise I won't bother you again.'

Ten minutes, was that really so much to ask? It did not sound so long, and he knew he would kill himself if he said no, but yet he didn't know if he could go through with it. To bring up all the past, to remind himself of all he had lost. Two years, two years and he was still not over it.

'Very well, meet me at the coffee shop on Church street at six.'

John nodded 'See you then' he smiled, but again looked like he was about to cry, Sherlock was confused. Why was John so upset at meeting him? He had broken up with him, had chosen someone else, he was the one that chose which life he wanted to live. Sherlock didn't get that luxury. So then why did he look at Sherlock like was his entire world? Why did he smile at him like that? As if Sherlock was everything John held dear? Why? John didn't love him, once perhaps, for a few fleeting moments, but now, no, so then why was he so desperate for another meeting, so desperate to see him again? He looked as if he would die if Sherlock had said no, why was that?

They parted, Sherlock walked down the street towards the solicitors office, but still he could feel John's eyes on the back of him. The part of him that wanted to run felt satisfied, but it was small and remote compared to the part that so badly wanted to run back and kiss him.

The solicitors was just as dull as Sherlock imagined, the old man in his old suit I his old office could not compete with Sherlock's brain, which had cemented itself firmly on six o'clock. What would he do? What would he say? Would he even turn up? Would John even turn up?

The will was read out, everything went to Mycroft, not that Sherlock really cared, he wasn't even remotely surprised, he had expected this. He didn't want any money, or inheritance, he didn't want any part of his father still in his life. Money would just remind him that his father still had a hold on him. He felt strangely free, entirely calm, to learn he had nothing. There was all sorts of papers and things he had to sort out, all sorts of bills that had to be paid, loops that had to be closed. It was a difficult process, to make sure there was a full stop after somebody's life, to make sure nothing had been left open.

He then went to the estate agents, the house was automatically put onto the market, he arranged with a local homeless charity to take the furniture, everything else would go into the skip. One week, it was all on schedule. Only six more days of this, and he would be gone.

He felt incredibly comfortable at being pragmatic, no silly emotions to deal with or get in his way. It was almost as if he was dealing with someone else's relative. That this wasn't really his father, it was someone else's, someone else giving his instructions and asking him to deal with it. He didn't feel at all like this was really happening to him.

Too soon it was six o'clock, the time he had been dreading. He decided to walk past the coffee place, if John wasn't inside he would move on, walk past and try and forget this ever happened. He checked his watch, it had just gone six. John had probably forgotten all about him, he had probably changed his mind. There was no way he would be there, just no way.

Except he was. He could see John's face staring through the window, looking increasingly anxious. He kept checking his watch over and over again, the coffee mug that sat by his hand was half full, he had been here a while, just waiting for him. What did John want to talk about? How great his marriage was? How brilliant it was that Sherlock was now miles and miles away? How wasn't it so stupid of Sherlock to ask him to run away together? 'Imagine if I had said yes! Wouldn't that have been the most idiotic decision in the history of mankind?' Luckily John had not spotted him, he kept looking around but Sherlock made sure to stand at an angle where he would be hidden. He couldn't decide if he should really walk inside. Really face his past. It wasn't too late to run, it wasn't too late to grab his bag from the hotel and get the hell out of this town. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

John drilled his fingers on the table and checked his watch. It was nearly five minutes past, not late enough to be stood up material but enough to make John silently panic, though the actual possibility of Sherlock even showing up was remote, he wasn't expecting miracles so the possibility of Sherlock even wanting to see him again was a very big ask. But he refused to just give up. He knew he was making a fool out of himself, the coffee shop was busy, he had been here a while and seen it gradually fill up, now there wasn't a table left, but he kept seeing waitresses glance at him with pitying looks. He had been there for over an hour now, spending every single second looking nervous, checking his watch, slowly sipping at his coffee which had now turned stone cold. He dreaded to think what they must have thought.

He kept going over their meeting earlier, running it through his mind, it had been brief, too brief, and awkward, but he couldn't believe it, that he had just been walking down the street at exactly the right time to spot him. He had looked amazing, a little too on the thin side but he was still the same old Sherlock. His curls still artfully messy, his cheeks still razor sharp, he had grown into his height, looking all the world like a model strutting down a catwalk. If anything he looked even better, John felt a throb go through him at just the sight of him.

And yet it had upset him somehow, the way Sherlock had looked so desperate to get away, which is why he doubted Sherlock would show up. There was a slight tinge of panic in his eyes and in his words, which had shook John to the very core. He had been kidding himself, of course if he ever saw him again it would be this way, there would be no birds singing, no grand leaping into arms, he could see that now, after all he had done to Sherlock he had deserved a punch in the face, he should be grateful that all Sherlock did was stare at the floor and awkwardly say hello.

He was still in love with him. There was no point denying it, one look at him and John knew he was done for. That this would probably destroy him even more, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't find the exit, or the way out, all he could do was beg Sherlock to see him again and hope for a few crumbs to be chucked his way.

The bell, which was situated above the door sounded, indicating someone had opened it. A new customer, he could see a waitress jump to attention. John looked over and there he was, Sherlock Holmes. He now wasn't a memory any more, he was now living, breathing and stood opposite him. John beamed, he couldn't help it, Sherlock handed his coat to the waitress and grinned awkwardly back at him, he pointed over to where John was sitting and John saw his lips move and form 'Black, two sugars.' John grinned, everything had changed, John was glad something was familiar, that something had stayed the same, even if it was only Sherlock's coffee order.

'Hi' he smiled at Sherlock, not quite believing if he could reach out his hand he could touch him.

'Hey' Sherlock mumbled back. Picking up a spoon that lay on the napkin and rolling it around his fingers.

'Thank you for coming.'

'No problem.' Sherlock shrugged. Avoiding his eyes. John was suddenly reminded of being a boy, and of an old button that had come of his coat, the button which had once been so securely tied, now it had come of, he had tried to push the button back onto the thread but it didn't reattach itself. Maybe this was exactly like Sherlock now, just cast out and he couldn't get him back.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. He wanted to grab Sherlock and kiss him, he wanted to propose, he wanted to take him on holiday, he wanted to look at flats together, he wanted to hold hands as they drank their coffee, he wanted to lean forward and have Sherlock just inches from him so everyone in the place would think they were discussing something intimate.

'How is Oxford?' He asked lamely, it was a start, he hated how impersonal it sounded, he hated how there was this vast distance between them yet he was only making small talk.

'Fine' Sherlock shrugged again. His coffee came, John was glad of the distraction of the waitress so he could gather his thoughts. Sherlock took the coffee in one hand and took a small sip. John had forgotten how long they were.

'I...I...' he hated this. I still love you, I still need you, I still want you. He couldn't say any of it.

'Lestrade got a job at Scotland Yard, said it was all thanks to you, apparently they thought it was him solving all the crimes.'

Sherlock smiled, it made John's heart melt. It was a small smile, not a hint of teeth, more a smirk then anything, but he felt Sherlock come just a little bit closer.

'He is not entirely incompetent, he will do well.'

John laughed, feeling the ice melt just a bit.

'How is Sarah?' Sherlock asked suddenly. John felt like something had quickly punched in the gut.

'Fine, absolutely fine. Great actually.' John didn't want Sherlock knowing he spent two years pining after him, he didn't want Sherlock laughing at him, what would the younger man say if he knew he spent two years drinking himself to death 'She is amazing.'

As soon as he said the words he saw something come over Sherlock's face, a type of anger he had not expected.

'Are you with anyone?' he asked, trying to make it sound as offhanded as he could.

'No'

No, no, _no, _NO, oh god the words sang through John's head as if they were attached to tiny wings. Sherlock was single. He knew there was no way Sherlock would ever get back with him, so he was slightly confused as to why he was so happy at the word. Maybe it was because he could enjoy not having to think of another man with Sherlock. To know that another man was out there loving him. To know that even though he stood no chance in hell, there was no competition.

'Why did you break up with me?' Sherlock asked quietly. Taking another long sip from his cup. His eyes pierced into two slits. 'I know why, but why did you wait till then?'

'Mycroft came over, made it pretty clear that if I carried on seeing you my head would be on a spike looking out over tower bridge.'

There was something in Sherlock's eyes he recognised, it was as if a thought had been confirmed.

There was a loud scraping on the floor as Sherlock got up out of his chair.

'I should go.'

'No' John protested, jumping up and grabbing his arm.

'Ten minutes are up John.'

'No wait, look, please, don't go.'

Sherlock sighed. 'What do you want to do John? Want me to stay so you can tell me how great it is being married to Sarah? '

John was flabbergasted, why was Sherlock being like this? Why did he care about Sarah?

'No of course not. I just wanted to see you.'

Sherlock paused, then asked the waitress to get his coat. 'You've seen me now. Goodbye John.'

Sherlock stormed down the street, he couldn't believe this. Of all the things he thought John would want to say that was definitely not it. He was angry, seething, he couldn't believe what he head heard. Did John really just do that? Just get him into a coffee shop just to tell him how great Sarah was? Did he just want to sit him down so they could slag off that seventeen year old kid who just wanted to love him? He didn't know what he had wanted, he knew there was no way John would just leap into his arms but still. Saying Sarah was amazing, saying that he said goodbye because his brother told him to. He John had ever loved him, had ever even liked him, he would have fought for him. He felt like he would cry, to know how easily John had separated from him.

He thought, maybe, that they could reminisce over the past and chat away like old friends. Yet John seemed to want something entirely different, maybe he wanted reassurance that he had don the right thing, well Sherlock wouldn't give it to him. He wouldn't sit there and have John tell him he was a massive mistake.

He stormed back into his hotel room. He decided to go. Fuck his father, fuck Mycroft, fuck everything. He should never had come to this bloody place. He should have stayed in Oxford and left the past in the past. Why the hell did he do this? Dragging it all back like this was stupid, ridiculous. He grabbed his suitcase, he was going. There was just no point in staying, he felt a twinge in his arm. He needed cocaine. He needed to go home and forget this ever happened.

There was a timid knock at the door. Who the fuck could that be? He hadn't rung room service, he hadn't invited anyone over. The only person who knew where he was was Mrs Hudson.

Flinging open the door he was ready to tell whoever it was to go the hell away, but when he found out who was behind the wood, he found he had suddenly lost his voice.

'Mrs Hudson. Told me where you were' John smiled weakly. He looked awkward, his hands shoved in his pockets. His cheeks blushed red.

Sherlock glared 'What are you doing here? I told you, you have seen me.' Sherlock hissed, he was angry, why was John chasing him? He didn't want him. He never had.

'I can't.' John stammered 'I can't just leave it like this.'

'Why!' Sherlock demanded, raising his voice slightly. Why was John here? 'What the hell is it that you want from me?'

'What the fuck do you think?' John said back, grabbing the back of Sherlock's head and crashing their lips together.


	6. You Are All I Have

Hello! Again thank you so much for all your support, I really could not do it without you, I love reading your comments, so thank you so much. I'm really keen to get this fic all wrapped up, so I will update as soon as I can,.

Lots of love

MB

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Closer Still

Chapter 6

You Are All I Have 

Sherlock was unsure whether he still loved or hated John when he felt the older man crush their lips together, inside his head there were two parts of his brain at war. One side screamed at him that this would only lead to more hurt, the other side however, was awash with just how good John felt on him. So far, the head telling him to stay exactly where he was, was most certainly winning.

He had forgotten how this tender action could be, how he could be, when John was against his lips, the love and attention of his lips, his teeth and his tongue, his smell and his taste. John's hands were frantically wrapping themselves up in his shirt, grabbing the fabric, pulling him closer. Reliving the past he so desperately wished that this was his future. No matter how many times he told himself to push John away, to protect what little dignity he had left, he just couldn't, he just couldn't stop it.

A hand in his hair, fingers running through his curls, a mouth of his neck, sucking and nipping at the skin, a voice in his ear.

'I want you, I want you.'

Closing his eyes he leant into John, as if all the power in his legs had simply evaporated. They staggered back into the hotel room, the door slamming shut, John clutching him closely pushing back with so much force Sherlock felt as if he would fall. Lips still locked together, mouths wide open, moving together, tongue's reuniting, Sherlock felt the heat in his stomach, he felt like fire, the open flame, two years, two years of yearning, two years of hurt and it all went into that one kiss.

John had never believed in fate, but now he was not so sure. He was always so logical, so scientific, everything was always black and white, but not he couldn't help but believe there was some kind of mystical, invisible force that had brought them back together. It seemed the only possible explanation. For a few fleeting seconds their eyes had met while walking down that street, it seemed so improbable, that he could be in the right place at the right time.

He clung to Sherlock, wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders and held him in place. His grey eyes staring back at him, wild and intense.

'Why did you do that?' Sherlock demanded 'Why do you think you had the right to do that? You break up with me, send me away, what makes you think have any right to kiss me?'

John racked his brains trying to come up with an answer for that, the truth was he didn't have one.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry I hurt you.'

'And sorry makes it all okay?' Sherlock pushed him away. The other side had won, the other side that was cold and pragmatic, the side that wished to keep his head held high, that wanted to stomp all over the dreams he had once has as a stupid teenager.

'No, of course it doesn't but.' he paused, he had so much to say but he just couldn't think of the right words, he felt so stuck, the silence was overwhelming, every second that past he felt Sherlock slip further and further away, 'Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want this. Two years Sherlock, I have spent every day thinking about you, dreaming about and just wishing you would come back, I was an idiot okay, a massive idiot but I can't let you walk on by.'

Sherlock threw his arms in the air and waved them around like a lunatic 'I loved you' he cried 'I loved you so much and then you just told me it was over. You never gave me a chance, ever, you gave me a few hours each week and that was it. You never fought for me, a few words from Mycroft and all of a sudden I'm nothing to you? Now you come back, and you seem to want me to do it all over again?' Suddenly he grabbed John's left hand, putting his forefinger and thumb on the gold ring 'Tell me that when you leave here you wont go straight back to her.'

John glared straight back at him and Sherlock clutched his hand.

'It was always her wasn't it? It was always Sarah, I was a joke to you wasn't I? Just a stupid dumb kid, you never took our relationship seriously, I was just there, fighting to get a look in while you fawned over Sarah, what was I to you? The boy you got to suck your cock on the weekends? The bit on the side? A bit of fun, just to see if you still had it?'

John snapped, he grabbed Sherlock and pushed him against the nearest wall. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist and held them above his head, pinning them in place with his hip. He could feel his breath on his face, he could feel his heart beating through his chest.

'Don't you dare say that. It was all my fault, I get it, but don't you dare say that what we had wasn't special. I love you'

'Love, you don't know what love is John Watson' Sherlock scoffed.

'Yeah, I do, and you are wrong about the other thing to.' John snapped back.

'What other thing?'

'That it was over, it's not over, it was never over.'

And with that, John grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and pushed his lips back onto his mouth. Screw it, he knew Sherlock could kick him out of his hotel room, he knew Sherlock could push him away and probably punch him, but he was going to go for the kiss, if he was going down, he may at least try and get something good out of it, even if it would only last seconds. If Sherlock was going to reject him, then he had to have something to hold on to, to keep him sane for the next two years, maybe the memory of a kiss, a ghost, a haunting presence of his lips, would do just that. Maybe it would keep him warm at night. He could hold onto it the next time Sarah told him she was ovulating.

The kiss itself was bruising, violent, almost dangerous, two mouths half in lust and half at war with each other. There was no elegance, no gentleness, no sweetness or care, it was all just take take take. Hands exploring, reuniting themselves as they had been there so many times before, fingers grasping at skin and fabric, a low moan, deep, croaked, husky, wanting, a sound which neither Sherlock or John were certain which one of them had made it. John felt something inside prick with desire and excitement, a force, an explosion, something he felt greater then himself, something he could not control or simply wish away, something he felt utterly consume him, something he had not felt for two whole years.

Sherlock waited, he waited and waited and waited, his brain would kick in soon and ignore his heart, any minute now, he just knew in a few seconds he would come to his senses, he would push John away and show him the door, but yet he couldn't. All he could do was cling on and let John push him back onto the bed. John's weight on top of him as he continued to kiss with a frenzied haste. He felt his cock start to stir, something it hadn't done in years. Suddenly, what had been neglected, had been entirely forgotten about, was now making itself know, large and heavy in the confines of his trousers.

John grabbed the buttons on his shirt and ripped it open, he could heart the buttons scatter onto the floor, he didn't care, he just needed John's touch. He felt like a man drowning and gasping for air, his mind needing John like oxygen in his lungs. John placed frantic kisses on his chest, each on circling his nipple, teasing, driving Sherlock utterly insane until finally he gave in and gave him what he wanted. The teeth gently nibbled, the tongue circling round till it was hardened nub beneath John's fingertips. He couldn't fight this, he had never for a moment been able to, even two years later the cord that bound him to John was still as strong as ever. He may have been able to make his body just transport, but it never listened to him when John was around, he had never cut the strings, John could still play him, even if he tried to stop it, his body would still sing for the older man.

'Are we arguing or having sex?' he wheezed.

John laughed 'You know it was always our foreplay.'

Sherlock smiled slightly, he looked back over their days together, long forgotten hours, he realised, during the end of their relationship they had spent more time arguing then they ever had being together. The thought made him sad. He was suddenly reminded of the orchestra that carried on playing while the Titanic sunk, they knew that they were doomed, that it was all falling apart around them, yet they had kept calm and carried on, and by doing so had managed to create something extraordinarily beautiful. He wished he had done this, accepted his fate with bravery, he could have enjoyed him, he could look back with fondness over their time together, rather then constantly ingesting the bitterness and hurt of the last few days all those years ago.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a hand creeping itself round his thighs.

'John' he groaned as the palm cupped him, he hissed at the initial contact, then felt the warmth settle in. He never touched himself any more, he washed it in the shower, but he never actually used it. Now it was completely taking over him, he felt like a virgin again, all these long lost feelings and responses, he was sensitive, he always had been, barely the barest movement by John and he was wild. He was barely doing anything, just cupping him, gently applying pressure to his fingers and running it over the front of his trousers, and yet Sherlock had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from crying out, or coming, or both. After so long, it was almost too much to bear. John's mouth found his again, a long kiss while he fiddled with his belt, Sherlock felt the cold air hit his thighs as his jeans and underwear were pulled down, he even lifted up his hips to help, he was too far gone to say no.

His brain was a puddle, he could barely remember his own name, and he could feel the heat in his face which could only indicate the appearance of the red blush only John could bring out of him. This only seemed to get worse when he felt John lower himself down, shuffle down the bed as he kissed along his chest and thighs, he licked the soft expanse of skin on his inner thighs, the skin which never got old, then, without warning he licked along Sherlock's shaft, causing the younger man to arch his back and then fall back onto the pillow. He wanted to touch John, but the other man had positioned himself just out of reach, a hot, wet tongue lapping and going to work on him, a mouth swallowing him down and cheeks hollowing themselves, pressure, the warm fire now turned into a thick open flame. He was long gone, there was no going back, all he could do was shut his eyes and wait for completion.

He closed his eyes 'John' he groaned, John, John, John.

Milky skin, smooth and white, as soft as a child's, supple and vibrant. He had missed it, he had missed it badly. A hand in his hair, not guiding, or pushing him down, it was just there, as if Sherlock wanted to make his presence known. John smiled, or as much of a smile as he could manage with a cock in his mouth. He took it down, deep into his throat, as close to his gag reflex as he could manage. It was messy, there was no skill or style to his actions, it was just as much of Sherlock as he could take, he didn't mind, and judging, by the small pants he could hear above him neither did Sherlock. He felt as if he would die, the anger, the fierce love, had all boiled over and left his feeling that unless he made Sherlock come soon, he could shuffle off the mortal coil. The separation, the hatred, the frustration, the coffee shop, the argument, it had all lead to this. He didn't know what would happen next, it would either make him, or utterly destroy him. Two years, it had all come down to this moment.

He took his mouth off Sherlock's prick, much to the younger man's disgust, and then covered his forefinger with saliva, it wasn't ideal, but he had hoped it was enough. He lowered him mouth back onto Sherlock's cock, using one hand to hold the base in place, and then slipped his other hand between Sherlock's legs, his fingertip gently toying with his entrance, circling and teasing till eventually he slipped it in.

Sherlock let out a loud moan and the hand in his hair tightened, John grinned, feeling the warmth and heat of the walls clamp themselves around him. He crooked his finger, gently, till eventually he found that soft, spongy bit of matter. He pressed against it, hard, then soft, hard then soft, Sherlock began to pant, his legs folding themselves around John, the hand running itself along John's scalp, he pressed hard against it once more.

'Oh god, oh god' he heard the younger man groaned, then John's mouth was filled with him. He closed his eyes, he didn't care about the taste, he just wanted to savour once again having Sherlock's essence. He had missed him so badly, he saw it as another part of him, and he swallowed it greedily. Sherlock moaned until the spurts died down, then collapsed back onto the bed in exhaustion.

John pulled himself back upwards, till their faces lay side by side. He buried his face inside Sherlock's neck, feeling the pulse beat rapidly. He tried to wrap and arm around him, but Sherlock pushed it away, he pulled his trousers up and got off the bed, walking towards the window, his shirt still open he reached out a hand and leant against the window pane.

'We shouldn't have done this.'

'What do you mean?' John asked quietly.

'I mean I am not seventeen years old any more John.'

John got up, walking over and trying to put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, but once again he was pushed away. Sherlock didn't even look him in the eye.

'I think you should leave.'

John felt as if all the air had left his lungs, once again he scrambled for words, once again they did not come. Sherlock walked over to the door and pulled it open.

'Sherlock...' John protested

'No John' the younger man interrupted 'I let you break my heart once, I am afraid I cannot let you do it again.'

John stood for a few moments, then walked out the door, knowing he had lost, he heard it click shut behind him, he did not look back as he walked down the corridor towards the exit.

Sherlock once again walked back to the window, he still couldn't move easily, his legs still felt like lead. One orgasm and he was like this, he was disgusted with himself. Her had expelled a bit of fluid and his body was acting like he had just run a marathon. John would always want Sarah, he had come to his hotel room for a bit of fun, and now he was leaving, Sherlock never learned. Why couldn't he see it? Why couldn't he see what John was doing and tell him no? Tell him he was not a fuck toy he could pick up and put down when he wanted. John was wrong, it was over, it had been over for two years, he wanted John to love him, he wanted a bloody relationship, he wanted to go to sleep and wake up with him being there. He wanted everything John had never been prepared to give him. He felt like hitting himself, for not moving on, for getting trapped in this game once again.

He looked out towards the street, seeing John's lonely figure come out of the hotels entrance. He knew this was for the best, he knew he must never let himself be hurt. He knew it all, and yet, yet the love was still there, still burning strong within him. He tried to quash it, he had spent two years trying to get rid of the heart that beat only for John, yet he had failed, and now he did not know what to do.

He placed his palm on the open window pane, but John was already far ahead of him.


	7. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**You have no idea how much I want you all to like this chapter, I have just about everything crossed, including a wide variety of internal organs. **

**MB**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Closer Still

Chapter 7

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

'And now time for the weather. Over to you Ellen.'

John blinked, suddenly realising he had just watched the entire six o'clock news and not taken a word of it in. Not that it mattered, it was all the same nowadays, economy in crises, war in the middle east, job losses somewhere, the government doing a decent job of running the country into the ground, wash, rinse, repeat. John doubted it was any different from yesterdays news, and if it was, John would not know, his mind was elsewhere, his mind was in a hotel room, or technically speaking, being kicked out of a hotel room.

Sherlock's words had stung him, Sherlock's actions stung him, in fact he was hard pressed to think of something that had not kicked him in the guts and left him gasping for air. What the hell was he thinking? Who the hell had he been kidding? He had hurt Sherlock, badly, one quick blow job would not make up for all that. He had tried and failed rather spectacularly in his attempts to tell Sherlock how he truly felt, and he was, rather deservedly so, now paying the full price for it. He should just be grateful all he got was a door slammed in his face, in reality he deserved at least one black eye, possibly even two.

He leaned back into the sofa, fiddling with the remote in his hands, all he could do was sit and think about Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. He had been wrong, he had been oh so very wrong if he just thought all they needed was to meet again and suddenly everything would magically snap back to how it was. He had spent so much time daydreaming and fantasising about what finally seeing Sherlock again, he hadn't given a thought to what he would do afterwards. It had all seemed so simple, just one look and they would fall back into each others arms, oh how wrong he was. He had not seen Sherlock since that night, he wanted to, he wanted to go and knock on that hotel door and beg forgiveness but each time he had chickened out. Each time he had thought of something else he had to do, it was too late or too early or too something. He was a bloody coward and he knew it.

There was no going back, he could see that now, what they had had been sealed off, a different place, a different time, one that was fixed, there was no changing it, it was a locked room that John knew he could no longer just go back into. No matter how badly he may want to. The film that played out, the memories reliving themselves in front of him were unreachable, untouchable, he could not fall through the screen and find himself back in that place. There was an island, a magical land called being okay and one that he was desperately trying to swim to, but he kept feeling himself being pushed further and further out to sea, the surface of the water hitting against his face till eventually he was pulled under, never to be seen again. There was a small part of him that wished he had never seen Sherlock again, that he was just left to wallow in the memories and hold onto an impossible dream that somehow he would see Sherlock and everything would be just fine. Now, all he had was the harsh truth, that Sherlock just did not want him. Not that he could blame him, he was beat, broken up, damaged goods. Who would want that? It was a dream, an impossible dream and now there was nothing left. He wished he could just snap out of it, but it was too late, he was just too far gone for that.

Unless. He thought for a few moments, it was silly, a silly stupid idea but suddenly it overcame him. What if, what if he just gave it one more chance. He remembered being in the pub with Greg, he remembered how he had promised himself that the next thing the fell into his lap he would hold on with both hands and never let go. Could he really forgive himself, in a month, a week, a year, a decade, a lifetime, if he looked back and knew he did nothing, knew he had just let Sherlock slip through his fingers like he had done two years ago? What if he just came clean? What if he just sat Sherlock down and told him the bloody truth? Yes, there was a high chance, actually more then a high more like absolutely certain chance, that he would be shot down in flames, but at least then he wouldn't have this constant nagging what if feeling. What if he could really, just really, put all his cards on the table, of course the rejection would hurt, of course it was going to be deeply unpleasant, but at least then his future self would know he would die trying. Surely, in the future, he would sit around and mope over the fact he had not tried to win Sherlock back, rather then the already forgone conclusion that Sherlock was over him.

No, if he was going down, he was going down fighting.

A strange energy suddenly came over him, he had no plan of action, he still had not decided what he would even tell Sherlock, but suddenly it felt as if someone had put a fire underneath him. He got up, pulled his coat from the coat rack and grabbed his keys. He was doing this, he was actually going to do it, screw the consequences, to hell with fear or dignity. He was going to lay himself bare and who cared about what happened after that. Really, what did he have left to lose? He was nothing, he had no job, a marriage that was not so much on the rocks as cast out and shattered over them, and it was all down to Sherlock. His life was like this, because he did not have Sherlock, and if Sherlock was the only way he could ever be happy, then he had to stand and fight, he had to try and try until there was just nothing left to do but face facts. He needed Sherlock, he needed him like oxygen, he had to have him, or he would just die trying.

He slammed to door behind him and ran out into the warm air, it would rain soon, he could feel it. He ran to his car and yanked the door open, he realised right there and then that he had no idea where Sherlock was, or if he was still in Bakerford. He thought for a few moments, trying and failing to calm himself, he felt so worked up there was a high chance he would be sick, his heart beating in his chest so violently it felt as if he would leap out through his ribcage and onto the steering wheel. Was he really doing this? Yes, it seemed he actually was. He pulled out his phone and dialled the only number he could think of.

'Come on come on' he muttered to himself as it rung out.

'Hello.'

'Mrs Hudson.' John practically screamed down the phone, throwing his hand into the air. She was in, oh thank god she was in, he could kiss her, the old woman only had a land line, he had prayed she wasn't at one of her bridge nights.

'Oh hello John' she cooed 'How are you? And how is Sarah? Oh I haven't seen you for a while, I really think you should come over for tea, Sarah to, I can make you something nice.'

'Mrs Hudson.' John tried to interrupt.

'Is Sarah free at all this week?' She continued 'I need a new prescription.'

'Mrs Hudson' he tried again

'And those herbal soothers she recommended are working a treat, my hip has never felt so sprightly, its just like new'

'Mrs Hudson!' he shouted, he heard a small squeak from the other end, he felt rather guilty but he would apologise later, right now too much was at stake, he just didn't have time for her nattering.

'Sherlock, have you seen him today?'

'Yes dear, he was round this afternoon'

John breathed a huge sigh of relief, he was still in town 'Any idea where he is now?'

There was a few moments pause 'Well yes, he went back to pack and to catch his train'

Train, train! John's mouth fell open, what if he was too late? What if he had missed him? Oh god what would he do?

'What time does his train leave?' John asked rather optimistically, though immediately preparing himself for the worst.

'Well let me think' again there was a pause, it seemed to last an eternity. 'Yes, it leaves at eight.'

Eight, eight? Eight! He checked his watch, and the clock on the dashboard, he still had time, there was still time, he could kiss Mrs Hudson, if he was there right in front of her he would pull her into his arms and snog her face off.

'Thank you, you have no idea how much this means, just, thank you.'

'Why, what's the hurry?'

'One day' John spluttered, 'One day I will sit you down and explain everything.'

'oh' was the rather confused reply.

'Got to go, bye'

'Bye dear'

He hung up. He slammed the clutch to the floor and turned the key in the ignition like a man possessed. He yanked the gear stick into first with such power he almost snapped it off. His mind was spinning so hard he almost forgot how to drive, in fact he was such a mess it took him a few attempts before he realised he had left the handbrake on. Finally, this time, clutch up, accelerator down, he over revved it like a bitch, but he was away.

Charging down the streets he new exactly where he was heading. Every traffic light he came up against, every turn, every tiny bit of traffic and he let out a string of expletives. He couldn't miss Sherlock, he just couldn't, he was certainly not going to be late because some idiot had decided to obey the speed limit.

After what felt like quite possibly the longest drive of his entire life, he finally came to the hotel. He parked in the street, not giving a shit if he got a ticket or not, and ran inside.

The stitch he got from charging up the stairs hurt him badly, he clutched his side wondering when on earth he had got so unfit, and started banging on the door.

'Sherlock! Sherlock open up' he yelled, no answer.

He tried again, and again, but still no answer. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know if Sherlock was inside or not.

He charged back down the stairs towards reception.

'Can I help you sir?' the pretty receptionist asked.

'Yes' John wheezed, still clutching his side 'Sherlock Holmes, I need to see him but he is not answering the door.'

The receptionist gave him a weak smile and then but her lip 'I'm afraid Sherlock Holmes checked out ten minutes ago.' She said apologetically.

'Fucking, shit, cock, balls' John exclaimed running a hand through his hair, then immediately began to apologise as soon as he saw the rather startled expression on the young ladies face. 'Sorry. Right, thanks' he smiled back hoping he had not offended her 'thanks for all you help' he called back as he ran out the door.

This was not the end, this was just a minor blip in the road, he had till eight to find him, well, he had till seven something and enough time to explain everything properly. there was still plenty of time, all he had to do was find him in time. He was not beaten, he was not beaten yet.

Running back to his car he ripped the parking ticked off his window and threw himself back into his seat, he heard the honking of a few cars as he pulled away without really looking what was behind or in front of him. Bakerford train station, that was the next logical place, he looked at his watch quickly, it was nearly half past, he had half an hour. Was that long enough? It had to be, it had to be long enough as there was no other choice.

Again he drove like a man possessed, again he drove with no regard whatsoever to the highway code or other motorists, it was a miracle he was not pulled over and arrested. He should be, he had seen better drunk drivers. It took him around ten minutes to get there, ten long, agonising minutes, once again the roads were against him, it seemed everyone had decided to just go out for a drive and purposely get in his bloody way. It seemed every light was on red, every zebra crossing had a crowd of slow moving pedestrians he was tempted to just plough straight through, he had never known a worse drive then this one, until finally he arrived.

He pulled into the car park, again not bothering to pay and display as he shut slammed the door closed and ran into the small station. He checked the board, only one train time was up there. Oxford. Eight o'clock, on time. Dammit the one time a train was actually on time and it was this one. The universe really did have it out for John H Watson. He ran out onto the platform, hearing screams from the staff behind him and saw him, he saw the unmistakeable sign of dark curls and pale skin, a bag at his feet, Sherlock saw his head snap round to face him. A puzzled look on his face. Sherlock.

It was going to rain soon.

Sherlock could feel it in the air. The dark clouds hung ominously above him, the dusky evening air around him was hot and stifled, a large bubble of pressure pushing into his skin. It had been a hot day, the first truly hot day of the summer, he had seen everyone out in shorts and shades, and now as evening approached the air became even more oppressive. Soon, very soon, it would give out and rain. Summer rain, Sherlock imagined the hot droplets falling on his skin, he imagined the rain soaking his clothes. He would not seek shelter from it, he already decided he would just let it fall all over him. He would enjoy it, he would feel like new.

He shuffled slightly on the bench he was sitting on, the black iron dug into his back, the heat from the day warming his skin through his clothes. His hands shoved in his pockets he exhaled impatiently. He wished time would just get a move on, it had suddenly seemed to slow right down much to his annoyance. There was nothing he could do, he had no book to read, no experiment he could conduct, he could not smoke, all he could do was sit and try not to think. Sadly this was easy to say, and seemingly impossible to put into practise. Unless he really, really concentrated, his mind would slip, wondering down to places he did not want to think about. He had to focus, he focused on keeping it blank, on keeping it fixed on nothing. Unfortunately his mind would not listen, would betray him over and over again, would slip into the ether and find itself in that hotel room.

He shook his head. Immediately dispelling the thoughts before he could think of them, but even though it had lasted a split second he could feel his stomach tie itself into a knot. He tried to once again focus his mind on something else, he recited pie back to himself, an old way he used as a kid to calm the storm inside his mind. He had not seen or heard from John since that night in the hotel, he didn't want to. There was nothing John could do or say to him that he did not know already, he did not want to retread old ground, he just wanted to be left alone. John didn't need or want him, he wanted a quick fuck, like he always had done, there was no point in trying to fight against it, he was swimming against a ferocious tide, he should just give up. Finally, rather then try and make it into something it wasn't and could never be. He had spent enough of his life carrying it around, now it was time to just let it go. There was no point in getting angry or upset, John certainly was not, so why should he? John had used him, he could see it now, that night was all about him and he had just let himself be carried away. He was disgusted with himself, how could he not have fought, actually for once in his life just said no, he should have told John to leave straight away, he should have slammed the door shut right in his face as soon as he saw it was him, rather then let himself be dragged inside.

There was a strange sort of calm, in knowing he was back to solitude. In knowing he was back to his default setting, no one cared about him, no one gave a flying fuck what he did or where he went. He was at peace with that now, perhaps that was why he had loved John as much as he did, that he could get swept up in the belief that someone out there wanted him, that he was needed, that he was loved. But it was all a lie. Who the hell was he kidding? He was Sherlock Holmes, a lonely figure, a ghost, an island. No one loved him, no one liked him, no one wanted him, no one cared for him, no one even wanted to give him the time of day. He would spend the rest of his life alone, and that's the way he would just have to get used to being. It was better this way, of course it was, relying on only himself, it was always easier to live with disappointing yourself, rather then being disappointed by other people. He was in charge of his own destiny, he would have to rely on himself, and only himself. This way, with the walls high up, closed off, he would never be hurt again, he would never be rejected, or neglected or ignored. To put your heart, to put your happiness, in other people's hands, was a big mistake. It was as if he had put all the love and happiness he had know into a jar and sealed it off, out of sight, out of mind, he could not touch it again, it was unreachable now, it was alien, something he would never be able to open up again. It was worth it, yes he would never feel those highs again, he would never feel the ecstasy or the sweetness, but he would never feel the lows, to be spared that, was worth living in a state of numbness.

He looked around, the clock above him had just struck half seven, he had half an hour, just half an hour to get through. He still had the sandwiches Mrs Hudson had made him in his bag, but he was not hungry, once again she had made him an enormous lunch, he would be digesting that for weeks. They had said goodbye once more, Sherlock had once again lied to her and promised to be back soon, but he would not, he was never coming back. Not for all the tea in China.

Bakerford Train station was as silent as the grave, he was the only one on the platform, there was a few staff members dotted about, but that was it. The week was up, in half an hour he would be getting a train back to Oxford and never return. He had promised Mycroft one week, one week and now that time was up, he had breathed a massive sigh of relief when he had woken up this morning, to know this was the last morning, and to know that that by evening he would be back to his flat and his own life. He had fulfilled the deal he had made, one week, nothing more, and now he was going home.

Mike had told him that the funeral had gone well, his father had been cremated and the ashes were in an urn on his mantelpiece. Unsure what to do with them Mike had asked Sherlock if he would like them, Sherlock had promptly told him no then hung up the phone. He had sorted everything out. The homeless charity had collected all the furniture, Sherlock had chucked everything else into a large skip, and the estate agents were dealing with the selling of his childhood home. They had promised to get a good price for it, Sherlock did not care, he just wanted it gone. With all of it sorted, Sherlock finally felt as if a large line had been drawn in the sand. That his old life was well and truly over. He could finally move on without all this hanging over his head. He remembered the last time he had left this town, all the tears and all the anger, there was none of that now. All there was now was a cold harsh realisation that this was the situation, there was nothing he could do to change it, and that he would just have to accept the situation and move on with his life. If he could not forget the past, he was just going to have to find a way to live with it. Once again his left arm burnt.

He had thought, foolishly hoped, that somehow, if he waited long enough the world would magically right itself, that somehow everything would just fall into place and he would be okay. Yet the more he had grown up the more he realised the world was not a warm and forgiving place. He had spent a magical time in his life doing everything he had always wanted, he had been in love, and solved crime, but now he knew this could never happen again. There was no going back, he had used up all his happiness quota and now he would just have to live with the hand he had been given. Whatever life had in store for him, he could not control. All he could do now was sit, and wait for the train to show up.

He heard a commotion from behind and suddenly the last person in the world he had expected to see ran out onto the platform. John.

Again, there was a horrible stitch on the side, he was quite out of breath.

'H...H...Hi' he wheezed, leaning forward, resting his hand on his thighs and almost falling, he reall needed to get back in shape.

He saw Sherlock's face with a confused, demanding expression, he held up his hand to silence him.

'Just give me a sec' he wheezed again. After a few minutes he finally got his breath back, standing up straight, mere inches from Sherlock's folded arms and stony look.

'What the hell are you doing here?' the younger man demanded.

'Mrs Hudson, told me when your train was' he explained, yeah, great thinking John, blame the old lady.

'That does not answer my question.'

John thought for a few moments, waiting until he was fully prepared, and began 'I couldn't let you leave without telling you the truth.'

'The truth? What truth?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically.

'The truth is I still love you, I never stopped loving you, I love you just as much now as I did then and I could not let you leave like this. I let you walk out of my life once? Do you really think I would let you do it again?'

There was a long pause. Something in Sherlock's face seemed to soften, a fleeting moment of confusion sprang up in his eyes.

'You still love me?' he mumbled.

John nodded 'I love you more then anything, and I was an idiot, a total idiot, for thinking I could live without you, I can't, I tried Sherlock, for two years I tried so hard, but I couldn't, everyday it was just you, I lost my job'

'You lost your job?'

'Yeah, yeah I did. Look Sherlock I can't let you get on the train without telling you how I feel, really feel, I love you, I never said it enough, but I do, more then anything there is on this entire planet. There is eight billion of us but I just want you.'

Sherlock looked like someone could easily knock him over with a feather. He looked wide eyed and rather comical. His mouth hung open, for once John doubted there was a great mind in there, he looked utterly dumbstruck, gobsmacked, human. Then he paused and shook his head.

'And Sarah? What about her?' he furrowed his brow.

'What about her. Whatever you want, if you want me to divorce her I will, if you want us to run away to Outer Mongolia I will. Anything Sherlock, anything you ask I will do it.'

Again, there was another long pause, John had never felt so exposed in all his life. He felt quite naked, with all his feelings right there on the floor in front of him.

'Why should I believe you? Why? What makes this any different from all the other times? Why should I think that you don't just want me because everything else fell apart?' he demanded.

'Because.' John replied 'You never said I fought for you, you said I just gave up, and I did, but I'm fighting for you right now.' he choked back a tear. 'I'm nothing without you, I'm nothing I'm no one, and I can't just let you leave.'

Suddenly there was a whooshing sound as the train pulled into the platform.

'The train now arriving at platform one is the eight o'clock train to Oxford' the tannoy crackled into life. 'Calling at...'

John looked back at Sherlock. 'It's too late isn't it? I'm sorry I.'

The younger man looked away, he did not look directly at John, he just stared ahead into the windows of the train.

'Goodbye.' John spluttered. Wiping his sleeve over his nose he turned and left. Walking back to his car he felt as if there was no air whatsoever in his lungs, every step was like lead, he was wading through treacle. It was too late. He was too late. He walked over to his car. He was too late, it was all just too late.

'For fuck's sake' he glared, ripping yet another parking ticked of his car, he had lost Sherlock, for good this time and now he owed the council. Twice. 'Fucking extortionate parking fares.' he grumbled. Wiping back a few tears, it was a relief to have something to direct his anger at. To put off reality for a while.

Suddenly, there was a small tug at his elbow. 'Yeah I get it' he snapped 'I've already got a ticket'

He turned, again the air rushed out of his lungs, his heart seemed to stop beating. Could it be? Could it possibly be? It was a mirage, a trick of the light, there was just no way.

'I was wondering if you could help me' Sherlock smiled 'it appears I have missed my train.'

He dropped the bag he had been carrying by his feet. John gawped. Then he felt his face pull into a smile.

'Sherlock' he squealed flinging himself at the younger man.

'John' he replied.

Their lips crushed together for a few brief moments, John felt utterly elated, he felt as if he would just float away. He hugged Sherlock close.

'I love you' he stammered, unsure of what else to say, unsure if there was anything he could say.

'I love you to' Sherlock replied, still smiling, a faint tinge of red appeared in his cheeks. John felt himself grinning like an idiot, any minute now he would burst.

'This isn't going to be easy you know' Sherlock said, his face suddenly quite serious. John rolled his eyes, annoyed at being brought back to reality.

'I know, but, god let's give it a chance eh?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, let's.'

John decided there was nothing he wanted more then to kiss Sherlock, so he did, and he felt Sherlock kiss him back. It was as if they were still out in a snow filled field, he was still a teacher, Sherlock was still a student, and nothing whatsoever had changed.

A raindrop fell but John didn't mind. He didn't mind one bit.

Heaven was in sight.


	8. Sarah

**Sorry for the delay, again I hope you like this. **

Closer Still

Chapter 8

Sarah

'You okay?'

John turned to face Sherlock's worried face, he gave a weak smile, taking Sherlock's hand and kissing along the knuckles.

'I'm fine, just give me a moment'. He savoured the silence as he packed the last of his stuff into his car, slamming the car boot down when it was all in. It was remarkable how little he owned, or at least how little he was willing to take with him, so much of his stuff was still in the house he shared with Sarah, he felt no pang of remorse for leaving it behind. Sarah was not home, she was once again at her mums, John had spent all evening in a state of near panic, wondering what the hell he was going to say. He had kept this secret hidden from her for so long, and now it was time for it all to come out. He didn't know what the hell he was doing.

He felt Sherlock's hand on his hip, breathing out John suddenly felt reassured by his touch. He was doing the right thing, it would be awful, but this was what he wanted. It was a strange feeling, to finally be following his heart, but it was a good feeling all the same. He wrapped his arms round the younger man and pulled his close, wanting him nearby, never wanting to let him go.

'What is you flat like?'

Sherlock chuckled 'You have asked me that already'

John shrugged and buried his face into the younger man's shoulder. 'I don't care, tell me again'

'It's small, it will be a bit of a squeeze with the two of us, but we will manage. It's right in the centre, there is a good library close by'

John let Sherlock ramble on some more, he was excited to hear about what was ahead. With a brother like Mycroft John highly doubted Sherlock was living in a typical student hovel. He was looking forward to just being with Sherlock, finally, properly. He couldn't wait to fall asleep next to him and wake up and him still being there. He was bizarrely excited at the prospect of doing all the mundane domestic tasks with him. He just could not wait.

He had forgotten who had suggested it, or even if it had even been mentioned, but them leaving for Oxford seemed the most logical thing to do. John did not want to wait a moment longer, there was no way Sherlock was going to stay in Bakerford, and if Sherlock was going then so was he. All he wanted to do was just leap in the car and hit the road, but he owed it to Sarah to at least try and offer some explanation. She would hate him, he deserved it.

They walked from the car up John's front garden and into his house, he looked around, knowing this could well be the last time he saw it. He had fond memories of Sherlock and him hanging out in its walls, but he was not sad to leave it behind. Not when he was taking all that really mattered with him.

Stepping into the kitchen they took a seat by the table, John wrapping his hand through Sherlock's and idly playing with his fingers.

'I love you'

'I know' Sherlock smiled back.

John exhaled and glanced at his watch for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. It was getting really late, Sarah would be home any minute.

'Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, I will follow you.' John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. 'It's going to be all right'

John grimaced, it was easy for him to say, he was not about to tell his wife he was leaving her for a man.

He heard the sound of the front door open. It was now or never.

'hello' he heard Sarah call out in the hallway.

He heard the clapping sound her heels made against the floor, John's heart was in his mouth, suddenly he felt Sherlock get out of his chair and stand beside him. Gently he ran his hand along John's fingers offering him a small smile, John could only smile back weakly, but he appreciated the small show of support all the same.

'Sherlock.' Sarah's tone was slightly startled as she came into the kitchen. 'What on earth are you doing here?' John could hardly blame her, of all the people Sarah would not expect to see standing in her kitchen, Sherlock would be pretty high up on the list.

Sherlock did not answer, instead he bit his lip and looked at John.

'I'm leaving' John spluttered. Sarah gave him an odd look before taking of her bag and placing it on the table.

'Leaving where? Its awfully late John' Sarah asked obviously confused.

'Oxford, I am going to Oxford, with Sherlock's

Sarah gave him an odd look, then suddenly frowned, her eyes flitting between the two men. 'John what the hell is going on?' She demanded.

John walked forward, gently placing his hands on Sarah's shoulders. 'I am so sorry, but I just can't do this any more, I love him and I'm sorry.'

Sarah looked at him utterly startled. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

John looked down at the floor, then at Sarah, determined not to look a coward. He would be brave, he would.

'Sherlock and I love each other very much, and I have to go, tonight, I can't stay its not fair on any of us'

There was a long pause, Sarah continued to flit her eyes between both Sherlock and John.

'The affair, all those years ago, it was with him wasn't it?' she asked, the penny finally dropping.

'Yes, it was'

'But how could you?' she wailed 'he was a child! How could you do that?'

'It wasn't his fault' Sherlock interrupted

'Don't you dare talk to me' Sarah snapped 'jabbing her finger at him 'I let you into my home, I took care of you and this is how you repay me?'

John grabbed her hand 'Don't bring him into this, its between you and me'

Sarah laughed 'Don't bring him into this? How can I just leave him out of this when he is trying to take you away from me'

'I'm leaving, tonight, I'm sorry but I love him, I love him with all my heart and nothing is going to change that'

Sarah swallowed a few times, John saw the tears stem out of the corner of her eyes. 'Don't do this to me, I love you, we can make it work I promise just please, please don't go.'

'I'm sorry' John mumbled again, unsure of what else he could say to her.

'I gave you everything.'

'I know'

Suddenly she lunged forward, John tried to grab hold of her but she was too quick for him, the sound of skin slapping skin, and an angry red mark appeared on Sherlock's cheek.

'You bastard you fucking bastard' She screamed at him.

John managed to restrain her, Sherlock looked emotionless, John knew behind the grey eyes his mind was working away, but on the outside he looked so calm, as cold as steel.

John took Sherlock's hand in his, then quietly he led him outside. He left Sarah standing in the kitchen, tears began to stream down her face.

'Is this really it? After all these years you are just giving up?' Sarah sniffed. 'What does he have that I don't?'

'I can't give you what you want. The past two years, you have seen what I am like without him, I can't do that for another two years, neither can you.'

Sarah glared at him. 'You're not the John Watson I married' she said simply.

John shook his head. 'No. I'm not' It was true, he wasn't. He was Sherlock's now.

He closed the door behind him. He felt as if he was about to cry, but he knew the worst was over with.

They walked, slowly towards his car.

'There is something I have to do'

Sherlock nodded, letting go of his hand then leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

'I'll wait'

John smiled, knowing waiting was something Sherlock seemed to do best. He handed Sherlock the keys and watched the younger man step into the passenger seat and do up his seatbelt. Then he walked silently to the end of the pavement, staring down at the drain in the road. He slipped off his wedding ring, then leaned down, placing his hand between the grill and letting the small band of gold fall. He watched as he heard the plopping sound, then watched it sink, till it was completely out of sight.

Walking back to the car he climbed in. Grabbing Sherlock's hand he kissed along the knuckles, knowing that for once in his life he had made the right choice.

'So, Oxford here we come?'

Sherlock smiled back. John saw the love in his grey eyes that seemed never to go out. He could not believe that it was his. He didn't deserve it, the only thing he could do was to never let Sherlock down, that promise he had made so long ago in that hotel room, he would never hurt Sherlock again.

He grinned once more, then started up the engine.


	9. Bricks and Mortar

Just a quick update from me. There will be just one more chapter of this, just to tie up some loose ends and give this a proper ending, I hope to have it up as soon as I can so keep an eye out. In the meantime that you all so much for reading :)

MB

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Closer Still

Chapter Nine

Bricks and Mortar 

When John first entered Sherlock's flat in Oxford he immediately assumed that a bomb had hit it. There were books, petri dishes, mugs of cold tea, newspapers, journals and other junk littered everywhere. It was so typically Sherlock John could only laugh, and then promise to himself that he would clean it up the next day.

Like all good Englishmen they switched on the kettle and made some tea. The cupboards were almost bare, but they contained just enough to make two mugs of hot tea, John decided first thing tomorrow he would go to Tesco, he would make sure Sherlock ate. After all the emotional upheaval John had just been through, he could not think of anything he wanted more then tea. Sherlock's flat was tiny, clearly meant for an individual so would be cramped with just the two of them, but John found he just did not care. He was with Sherlock, that was all that mattered, they could live in a skip and he would just be happy they were finally together. He looked around the tiny space, feeling content for the first time maybe in his entire life, knowing that he and Sherlock finally had a space that was all of their very own. He quickly realised that was all he had ever wanted. Now he finally had it he realised how much he had yearned for it, a private, peaceful space, one that no one could disturb, no one could trespass on, it was all of their very own. He thought it would be awkward, the way it always is when living in someone else's home, but, strangely, as soon as he put his bag down it was his.

He glanced at his lover, his heart, his soul, his everything. Sherlock smiled back, leant in to gently kiss him. John knew that no one would understand how he had come to be here, how he had just given up everything he had, he knew that they would be forever the subject of gossip, rumours, whispers, that the likelihood was that no one would understand or appreciate their love, that what they had done was taboo, forever in darkness, but it didn't matter. He had licked his wounds clean, he had Sherlock, there was no pain any more, life would be good. People could talk all they like, he could not give a fuck.

He held Sherlock in his arms, for once he felt like he had the arms of a solider, he would be a solider for Sherlock, he would be a brave man, he would fight Sherlock's corner, he would protect Sherlock, he would be that island in the storm, he would make Sherlock lived a long and happy life. And when it was all done, he would die knowing he had experienced something very few did, that this love, above anything else, was true, and that it was meant to be. They would fight, he knew that, they would argue, there were times when they would hate each other, but his heart was Sherlock's, it wasn't perfect, but it was all he had to give, and he was content in knowing he had Sherlock's.

Someone had come, poured salt on all their wounds, and now they could start again, all the hurt, all the angsts, was behind them. They were absolved, redeemed. And life was before them.

He found Sherlock's track marks as they undressed, faded, thin snakes on his arms. He forced himself to face it, spending a few moments coming to terms with all he had done.

'Are you angry?' Sherlock asked him.

John shook his head. 'I drained enough bottles to know the need to forget'

They never mentioned it again.

They made love that night, it went beyond simply sex, simple kisses and an exchange of fluid. John felt as if he had laid himself bare, that his very soul was on show for Sherlock to take and enjoy. They kissed and cuddled and laughed, and when John pushed inside the younger man, he knew there was no where else he should have been. He had wasted so much time in denying him, in denying his love, in running away and trying to ignore what his heart wanted, in trying to make himself something he wasn't. No he simply decided to let go of everything, and allow himself to be swept away.

He touched Sherlock's skin, licked along his neck, tasting the salt and sweat, He felt young, he felt alive, his cock was rock hard and Sherlock had only but to glance at it. He took Sherlock to heaven and back, it was the least he could do after all he had put the younger man through. He grinned each time Sherlock came, screaming his name. He savoured being inside, running his hands through the dark curls, feeling the hot, wet walls close in on him, feeing the pulse underneath, two hearts beating, two bodies moving as one.

He was a lonely planet and Sherlock was his sun, the very centre of his existence, everything else paled in comparison to him. He had finally figured out, after all these years, that his existence was solely based on finding, saving and loving the curl haired genius. Or maybe Sherlock had been the one to save him? Who knew, all that mattered was that as he fell asleep, he knew Sherlock would be there next to him when he awoke that morning, and the morning after that.

He had found love, he had found hope and most importantly of all he had found himself. He couldn't wait, he felt life was now a bright green apple, ready for him and Sherlock to take a large bight out of it. His heart skipped thinking of the days he had with Sherlock, the shorts and sunglasses of summer to the gloves and scarves of winter.

There love was made of so much, more then anything he owned, anything he knew, it was greater then both of them, and it was all John had ever wanted.


	10. True Love Will Find You In The End

**Well, here it is everyone, the very last chapter. I feel so relieved to have finally finished this. A big big thank you to everyone for sticking by me, through broken laptops and writers block, all the PM's, reviews, alerts, favourites, it means more to me then you could possibly imagine. Thank you so much for reading, just, thank you.**

**This may be the end of this particular story, but I have started a brand new fic! 'Always A Watson' will be up sometime in the new year, I hope you read that and enjoy it just as much as this. :) In the meantime I hope you all have a brilliant Christmas (if you celebrate it of course) and everyone have a super duper new year! I hope all your 2013's are filled with love, happiness and of course lots of man porn!**

**See you all soon (I hope) for another crazy ride.**

**Lots and lots of love**

**Marlboro Blanc**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXxx**

**Closer. Still.**

**Chapter Ten.**

**True Love Will Find You In The End**

**One Year Later**

'I look like an idiot' Sherlock complained, tugging at the dark black graduation robe in disgust. John laughed, for a man for didn't care what people thought of him he could be surprisingly vein.

'You look wonderful.' He soothed, leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. 'Just wonderful'

Sherlock made a face, then went back to toying with his hat. John left him to it, knowing no amount of nagging or reassurance would work.

'Are you working tonight?' he asked offhandedly, John saw him bite his lip slightly, a sign that this was a much more important question then Sherlock was letting on. John shook his head.

'Nope, got the whole day off.' he reassured his younger lover. He had been teaching Biology at a night school just outside Oxford, it wasn't glamorous, the pay was terrible and rather then teaching smart middle class teenagers he was mostly faced with ex cons and people who could barely speak English, but it was something and John clung to it. He was happy to be bringing some money in, unlike Sherlock who seemed to be quite happy spending his brothers money out of spite. John was content knowing his half of the rent was covered. They still lived in that cramped one bedroom flat, but John didn't want to be anywhere else. Yes it was messy, yes despite his best efforts at keeping it clean Sherlock kept leaving his experiments lying about everywhere, but it was home.

'Why are you looking at me like that?' Sherlock snapped bringing his out of his daydream. John shrugged and tried to hide his expression.

'No reason, I'm just proud of you that's all.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I'm just graduating university John, hardly a massive accomplishment.' John did not reply.

They had taken his car to the university and were currently standing to the edge of a throng of Sherlock's classmates. The only one Sherlock had said hi to was Sam, John could sense Sam was not entirely comfortable around him, for reasons he could not quite understand, but he liked the younger man, he was carefree and easy going, an influence John was grateful Sherlock had.

'Ready to meet your maker Shirley?' Sam asked, coming bounding up in his usual way, with the enthusiasm of a child who had ingested his body weight in haribo and sunny delight.

'As ready as I'll ever be' Sherlock replied drolly. It was then that John spotted him, a tall figure walking slowly towards them. John swallowed his nerves and decided it was now or never.

'Err listen Sherlock, I have something to tell you.'

'What is it?' Sherlock asked, his voice dropping low, suspicion clouding his pupils. John fiddled with his tie.

'I err, look its your graduation, I couldn't exactly say no could it? And it will be fine, it will all be fine.'

'Just spit it out' Sherlock snapped tired of John's rambling. John looked over towards the figure and Sherlock followed his gaze, finally noticing the slim man.

'Mycroft' he seethed 'You invited Mycroft.'

John could feel the anger boil in the air between them. He was given a 'I am never having sex with you ever again John Watson' glare.

John sighed 'Yes how terrible of me to invite your only family member to your graduation'

Sam laughed. 'Your on your own mate' as he was pulled away by his mother who wanted yet another photograph.

Mycroft gave him a weak smile as he came up, leaning on his umbrella and taking in the sight around him. His light grey three piece suit looked hideously expensive as he looked around at all the students with disdain.

'Hello Sherlock.' he greeted his younger brother with an awkward smile and a nod. 'Mr Watson'

He did not look in John's direction for very long, though there were no punches thrown so John took it as a success. Mycroft had made it abundantly clear that he still did not approve of their relationship, and he still looked at John as if he was something he had scraped of the bottom of his shoe, when Mycroft first heard that Sherlock and himself were back together he drove to Oxford that night, it resulted in hours and hours of screaming in which John was called all sorts of names. Over the weeks Mycroft tried all sorts of tactics to split them up, he tried threatening, bribery, espionage, bugging the flat, everything, eventually as the months past and Mycroft saw just how dedicated he was to Sherlock things had cooled. They settled into a 'I still hate your guts but I am going to be civil for the sake of my brother' relationship, for which John was grateful, and it suited them both surprisingly well.

The graduation ceremony itself seemed to drag on and on, Mycroft and John sat next to each other in stone cold silence. John lost himself in his thoughts, he remembered the early days, he remembered Bakerford, he remembered their affair, he remembered everything leading up to this moment. Seeing Sherlock have his name called out, walk along the stage, shake hands with the dean and accept his degree he felt a surge of pride. He was reminded of how he had very nearly given it all up. There had been a delicate balance between then in the early days when John had just arrived in Oxford, both worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, it had been awkward, the house of cards they had built had very nearly collapsed, but gradually as John adjusted to his new life things had settled, they built a routine, got used to having each other so close and fell in love all over again. Sometimes he would wake and find Sherlock curled up in his arms, he would gaze down at the peaceful sleeping face and have to pinch himself, to remind himself that he really was not dreaming, that this was really happening.

John took photo's, Sherlock threw his hat in the air and soon it was all over. Mycroft took them both out for dinner, Sherlock did the decent thing and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and soon Mycroft to was set to leave.

'Before I go there is something I want to give you, a graduation present if you will.' he reached inside his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a check. John saw the amount and gulped, it was more money then he had ever seen in his life, if they were careful neither would have to work again.

'The money from fathers life insurance, inheritance and the sale of the house. I want you to have it.'

Sherlock glared. 'I don't want it.' he hissed.

'Really?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'No' Sherlock shook his head defiantly. 'its tainted.'

'Sherlock.' John pleaded. Stupid stubborn Holmes's he thought to himself. 'We could move to London, we could start your consultancy business.' he would not let Sherlock throw away his dreams for the sake of pride, he just wouldn't.

Sherlock took the check and glanced at it for a few moments.

'He took so much away from you' John continued, reaching over and placing a hand on his elbow. 'We could make something good come out of this.'

John did not care if they were penniless, he had everything he needed, but here was a chance for Sherlock to fulfil his dreams, and he would not let the younger man throw it away.

Sherlock placed it in his pocket. 'I will think about it.'

The next day John was in the shower, he sighed at felt the warm water cascade over his skin.

'John! John' Sherlock shouted. John panicked, leaping out of the shower and grabbing a towel. He thought of all the things that could be happening, Sherlock hurt, Sherlock injured, Sherlock on fire.

'What is it?' he spluttered, coming into the living room, everything was still, everything was calm. Sherlock was sat on the sofa with his (honestly why did he always have to use his laptop? Why not use his own just once?) laptop open up on his lap.

'The perfect flat, in London, I have found it' Sherlock beamed.

John furrowed his brow 'And this could not wait till after my shower because?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes 'Your shower is not important John, this is'

'So we are moving to London now? I thought you said the money was tainted?' John felt relieved, he also felt his heart speed up, London and Sherlock, the two greatest loves of his life, together.

'Irrelevant.' he waved a hand.

'Okay, tell me about this perfect flat.' John suddenly became self conscious that he was wearing just a towel, he grabbed his dressing gown and sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, lifting up the younger mans legs and draping them across his lap.

'its in our price range' Sherlock began 'perfect central location, two bedroom, not that we will be needing two bedrooms, plenty of room.'

John was impressed, it did sound perfect, he leaned over to glance at the screen, a smart building greeted him, he saw a red awning with Speedy's sandwich bar and cafe written in neat white letters across the front. Next to it were pictures of a cosy looking interior.

'Okay I am getting my shoes on' John joked. 'What is the address'

'Err' Sherlock glanced at the screen. '221B Baker Street' he read out slowly.

John laughed again. 'Baker street? Sounds like Bakerford, clever eh?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as if he had gone quite mad. 'No John, not really.'

They rang up the estate agents that minute and arranged a viewing the next day. The trip to London brought back all sorts of memories for John, he was itching to get back there. They stood in the flat for all of thirty seconds before they decided to move in, it really was just utterly perfect.

As soon as they got back they arranged the move. They spent the next few days packing and arranging everything. Sherlock was quite happy to throw all of John's stuff haphazardly into boxes, yet took great care packing his own scientific equipment.

They were packing up the books when they heard it, the sound of the letterbox, the sound of a large envelope crashing to the floor. John swallowed nervously, he knew what it was. He knew exactly what it was. He walked over and picked up the manilla envelope, opening it up with trembling fingers and reading the contents.

'Is that what I think it is?' Sherlock asked quietly.

John nodded. 'My divorce.' he confirmed. 'its been finalised.' he saw his and Sarah's signatures at the bottom. It was all over.

Sarah had kept everything, John couldn't bring himself to ask for any of it, knowing he was the one that was in the wrong. They split the sale of the house and Sarah moved back in with her mum. She was still living there the last John had heard. John did not mind her keeping all their possessions, neither did Sherlock, well, except one thing, they had both been fond of that dumb dog.

'Are you okay?' Sherlock asked timidly, coming over and wrapping an arm around his waist.

'I don't regret it, not for a moment.' John reassured him, running his hands through his curls and kissing him on the cheek. 'But we were together for a long time Sherlock.'

'I understand' Sherlock nodded, deciding it was best to leave John alone with his thoughts.

'This is the last box.' John told the removal men as they unloaded the van. Sherlock had already disappeared inside their new home as soon as they arrived outside the door of 221B, half of John was annoyed the younger man had left his to deal with it, and half of him felt amused at his childish enthusiasm.

When everything was unpacked and the removal men left Sherlock leapt into John's arms. 'Can you believe it? We are finally here' he squealed.

John laughed, staring round at the boxes they had to unpack. He couldn't wait to turn the flat into their home.

'What is it' he asked the wiry youth as he stared outside the window, his eyes narrowed.

'Police car.'

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and in walked Greg, or Detective Lestrade as he was now known. He greeted them both with a warm smile.

'Got a case for you, if you fancy it.'

Sherlock nodded 'Only if its above a seven.'

Greg smiled, 'Oh this is a ten, believe me' he dug out a folder and held up a picture of a young man. 'James Moriarty, old school friend of yours. He is asking for you apparently.'

Sherlock beamed. Happy that his old bully had fulfilled his promise. He grabbed his coat and ran out of the room, Lestrade running after him.

John glanced around at his new home, he was happy, so very happy, he had Sherlock, he was back in London, he had the promise of adventures stretched out before him. He had everything he could possibly want, he had everything he could possibly need. He loved, and he was loved in return, and that was all that really mattered.

'Come on John' Sherlock ran back into the room, barking at him impatiently.

'The game is on!'

**The end.**


End file.
